Release
by writingbabe
Summary: Ten years after Edward and Alice abandoned her, Bella returns to Forks. What brings Alice to her door? Why has Edward moved into the Cullens' old house? And who helps Bella escape her painful past-in his playroom? AH
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a mortgage, a golden retriever, a laptop and the scenario to this story. Though there is nothing graphic here, some of the themes in this story may be disturbing to some readers. If a character craving punishment and withholding of privileges upsets you, don't read this story.**

**Author's Note:** **I started reading fanfic nearly a year ago when a stress fracture had me off my feet and in front of the computer much more than usual. It's been an eye-opening and deeply satisfying experience.**

**Sebastien Robichaud, Snowqueens Icedragon, WriteOnTime, tarasueme, WndrngY, hunterhunting and so many others: I've enjoyed your stories more than I can say. I don't consider myself in your league, but wanted to contribute something to this remarkable community of readers and writers, so here's my entry into the FF world.**

**Many thanks to my beta Serendipitous, also known here as Meilleur Café, for her assistance. Without her, this story would be much less clear. And far more prone to sentence fragments.**

**Release**

Bella saved her old bedroom for last. In the months since she began clearing out Charlie's house, she hadn't so much as opened the door. There was no point: she couldn't use the bed anyway. On weekends, Bella only slept in one bed, and then only by invitation. Otherwise she took her rest on a blanket on the carpeted floor of His bedroom. Since Charlie's floors were all hardwood, He had directed her to use an air mattress when she spent her weekend a month in Forks. It was an uncomfortably kind command given that any weekend away from Him was technically a breach of their agreement. He was usually more about denying her privileges and pleasures. She hoped he could limit his sympathy for her to the loss of her father—she needed him to be strict, unbending. It was the only reason she had agreed to be His every weekend, from 6 p.m. Friday to 4 p.m. Sunday.

At the top of the stairs, Bella broke open a new pack of banker's boxes and began assembling them. Late afternoon light, gloomy from the overcast, filtered through the open door of Charlie's newly empty bedroom and seemed to rise up the stairs from the floor below. It was Sunday, and she still had a nearly four-hour drive ahead of her. He had assigned a 10 p.m. lights-out curfew on school nights. Bella considered ducking out as she stacked the last empty box beside the door. What was another month in the scheme of things? There was no rush to get a "for sale" sign in front of the house: Charlie had owned it free and clear, and it wasn't as if the market was hot. If she left now, she'd have time to pick up groceries and grade some papers before bed. If not, she'd have to hope for good weather and light traffic to make it home in time.

But she'd been dreading this, and having it hang over her head for another month was too awful to contemplate. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest as she set her hand on the doorknob. She'd just have to be quick. She took a deep breath, trying to convince herself that the time pressure would keep her from dwelling.

When the doorbell rang, she was, for once, relieved. People still stopped by sometimes. It was part of having a beloved public servant for a father. The entire town seemed to miss him, and need to pat her hand or give her an awkward hug. Today, she welcomed the distraction.

Until she made it to the bottom of the stairs and saw the silhouette in the narrow window next to the front door.

For an instant, Bella considered not answering, but her car was in the driveway so she was obviously there. Besides, her visitor would have known anyway. Alice always knew.

As Alice reached for the bell again, Bella unlocked the deadbolt, opened the inside door and waited. She didn't normally answer the door with a staredown, but it had been ten years. And Alice, once her best friend, had cut her loose without so much as a goodbye.

Alice's hair was still short and pixie-like, though she now wore it in a sleek, sophisticated style that suited her new life. She was an up-and-coming fashion designer, and looked every inch the part. But then, she always had.

Alice stared back, seemingly at a loss. Bella tried to picture herself from Alice's perspective: still short, though taller than her, still slim. Long brown hair, though she'd learned how to tame it into a smooth sheen, and it only brushed her shoulder blades now. Same jeans, same Chuck Taylors, same band T-shirt. Bella's casual clothes were still comfort first. She suspected Alice would approve of the things she wore to class. As a young, petite woman, Bella made a point to don edgy, yet somewhat formal clothes to keep the line between student and teacher clear. Bella wasn't their friend or a potential date. She also insisted they call her Dr. Swan. Professor for short.

Bella let Alice search her face for what seemed like both a moment and an age.

When she breathed, "Bella" and reached for the screen door handle, Bella turned and walked to the kitchen, daring her to follow and avoiding the bone-crushing hug that had always been Alice's signature greeting. Or the awkwardness, if no hug was forthcoming. The click of Alice's heels echoed off the bare walls and floors, letting Bella know exactly where she was. She stopped two steps into the kitchen.

Bella kept her back to Alice as she measured the coffee and started the pot. Once the coffee maker began hissing, she took mugs and the sugar bowl from the one cupboard that still held a handful of mismatched dishes she used on weekends. As she pulled the half-and-half from the fridge, Bella finally broke the silence. "I'd ask you to sit, but the table and chairs sold at the garage sale." So had everything else. Except for a few lamps and her old bedroom, the house was essentially bare.

"Bella." Alice's begging voice had worked its magic on Charlie many times during their high school years. On everyone, really. But it didn't seem magical anymore. It seemed laced with regret. Or maybe that was just what Bella hoped to hear, because Alice's rejection had hurt just as much as Edward's. She'd never been so blindsided, not even when Edward walked her into the woods behind Charlie's house to "talk."

"How do you take your coffee these days?" Bella turned her head slightly to speak over her shoulder, but didn't look at her.

Alice took a ragged breath; she was either crying or trying not to. "Same as always."

Bella scooped two teaspoons of sugar into one of the mugs, poured coffee into both and added cream, stirring slowly and silently before crossing the room with both mugs. She held out Alice's and finally met her eyes.

They were gray and lovely, just as Bella remembered. Her makeup was exquisite, intact despite her tears. If this had been a different kind of moment, Bella might have asked what brand she used. Alice reached as if she was going to take the mug, but gripped Bella's wrist instead. She studied her until Bella pulled away, then took her mug, still staring. "You haven't changed."

Alice seemed to intend it as a compliment, but Bella bristled. She was irrevocably changed. "Save the sweet talk, Charlie's not here." Her voice wavered so she averted her eyes and blew on her coffee, trying to collect herself. She could usually talk about her father without letting the loss creep into her voice, but not with Alice. She never could hide things from Alice.

"I didn't know, Bella. I just heard and I had to see you. I—" She seemed at a loss, but Bella didn't need an explanation. She'd seen enough media coverage of Alice's career to know she now lived in London.

"What really brings you back to Forks, Alice?" She couldn't keep the chill from her tone. "You didn't fly halfway across the globe on my account."

Though her eyes flashed a reproach, Alice quickly gathered herself. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come. It was selfish. But I was in Portland on business and when Edw—" Her face paled in a way Bella had only seen it do once before. On her eighteenth birthday.

The bare room suddenly felt far too close. She had to get air. As Bella pushed past her, Alice choked out, "I never wanted to."

Bella turned and fixed Alice with a cold stare. "But you did."

Nausea rose fast and hard. Bella bolted toward the stairs and the house's only bathroom but Alice grabbed her elbow and spun her around.

"He's going to kill me for this, but you have a right to know."

Bella jerked her arm away, but was caught by the fear in Alice's eyes. Though adrenaline pounded through her system, urging flight, she couldn't move. "Edward is here." Bella shot a panicked glance past Alice, half expecting to see him standing on the porch. "In Forks. He's opened up the house."

Bella didn't venture into town much, just to the grocery and the diner, and had assumed the pitying looks were still sympathy for her loss. For Charlie. She was the last to know. Again.

Alice's eyes seemed to read her every thought and Bella wanted to slap her. Damn Alice for still having the power to hurt her. And damn her more for witnessing the pain.

"Get. Out." Bella's voice strained with her effort to remain in control.

Tears coursed down Alice's face as she backed toward the front door. "I'm so very sorry, Bella. For everything. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am." Alice let out a sob then, something Bella had never heard before. The Alice she knew only cried pretty, useful tears.

Bella was truly ill by then, and ran up the stairs.

When the dry heaves subsided, Bella flew into her old bedroom to look out the window at the front yard. Her car was alone in the driveway; Alice was gone. And she'd crossed a threshold she'd been dreading without a second thought. She turned and took in the room.

Not much had changed, except it appeared Charlie had stowed a few things in here over the years. A pair of hip waders next to the door. A quilted flannel shirt Charlie wore when fishing in cool weather on the bed. Bella picked it up and held it to her nose, hoping for a whiff of Charlie, but it just smelled musty.

The room was emptier than she expected, but it made sense: most of her clothes and books went with her to college and she never brought them back here. What remained was a twin bed, dresser, desk and chair, the rocker in the corner, the posters on the walls. And all the things she left this town to forget.

Edward. The only important things Bella had left behind were related to Edward, and now he was back.

Sudden clarity dawned: she needed to finish this today. She never wanted to set foot in Forks again.

She stripped the bed and hauled everything to the laundry area next to the kitchen. After starting the first load, she brewed a new pot of coffee and examined the contents of the fridge. There were leftovers from her dinner the previous night, so she heated them up and ate standing at the counter. She scraped her plate into the garbage can, then dragged it to the fridge and threw away all the condiments, a couple of stray packages of fish from the freezer and the last few cans of Charlie's beer. She unplugged it and left the doors open so it could defrost. Then she switched wash loads and went upstairs, grabbing the box of trashcan liners on the way.

Bella emptied the dresser and closet of the few clothes she'd left behind, folding them neatly and stacking them in a trash bag so she could drop them off at the Salvation Army store on her way through Port Angeles. Even if it poured, the clothes would be dry when someone found them in the morning. She filled another bag with old shoes, CDs of bands that had rightfully faded from memory, a few belts and purses.

She was tempted to start another trash bag when she sat at her desk, but didn't. She knew that in theory there might come a day when she could once again smile on the bits of ephemera she'd tacked to the bulletin board above it so many years ago. Bella tried to think with kindness on the girl she had once been as she took things down and packed them into a box, but one scrap in particular caught her eye:

"When he was present she had no eyes for anyone else.

Every thing he did was right. Every thing he said was clever. …

This was the season of happiness…

~Jane Austen

from _Sense and Sensibility_"

At eighteen, Bella had considered herself like Elinor Dashwood: cautious, level-headed, able to master her emotions. Edward frequently complained that he could never tell what she was thinking. But she had allowed him to pick every locked corner of her heart and ended up, like Marianne, betrayed.

When the room was essentially bare, Bella hauled everything down the stairs, staging it by the front door. She switched the second load from washer to dryer, folded up the dry things and stacked them at the door. Then she loaded the car.

She came back inside and considered going back upstairs to face the very last of it, the Edward mementos, but first she washed out the now defrosted fridge. Last was last, and she wanted to be able to make her escape the moment it was done. She washed her dinner plate and coffee mug, intending to add them to the Salvation Army donation, but realized everything was in bags and they would likely get broken. In the end, she threw them out then emptied the trash one last time, dragging the cans to the curb.

Then she climbed the stairs and knelt beside her old bed. Charlie wasn't much of a handyman, but if he'd discovered the floorboard that teetered if you stepped on it just right, he would have nailed it down. She almost hoped he had.

But it was still loose. She pried it up and set it aside.

The most recent of the journals lay on top. Bella knew the last entry in that journal—she wrote it during the Cullens' extravagant graduation party. That was when she finally understood it was over. It had been over for Edward and Alice for most of the school year, but she had somehow let herself hope despite all evidence.

That hope died under the moonlight in their meadow.

Edward's meadow.

Edward and Tanya's meadow.

Bella stacked the journals in one corner of a box and blocked them in with Edward's T-shirt. He'd left it in her truck after a trip to First Beach one of the halcyon days of the summer before it all fell apart, and she'd slipped it on over her bikini when they got home to Charlie's. Edward's eyes had gleamed when he asked her to keep it. And sleep in it.

The day after graduation, Bella asked Charlie to hire someone to trim the huge tree in the front yard, the one with branches that made it easy to climb into her bedroom window. The branches scraped the siding and roof when it was windy, so she told him it gave her nightmares. The truth was, she had no more energy for false hope. Edward had snuck in her window more than a few times that perfect summer, including the night after the beach trip, the first time Bella had slept in nothing but his shirt. But he would never sneak in again.

When the tree service came, she had listened, heartsick, as the arborist explained to Charlie that the whole tree needed to come down. Something about the roots being girdled and the danger of it falling on the house in a storm. She took pictures of the tree before she left for her shift at Newton's Outdoor Outfitters, and when she returned home that evening, the smell of fresh-cut wood still hung in the air. The tree was down, the stump ground into sawdust. Bella collected some of it in a jar and let it dry on her windowsill.

She tucked the tree photos and jar in the banker's box, then lifted out the shoebox that held dried flowers, notes, trinkets like the mood ring Edward bought her from a gumball machine, and the few photos of Edward and Bella together that he and Alice hadn't been able to take away from her. She didn't open it, just settled it in with the rest. Bella wondered if Edward still had the cap from her lemonade bottle, forgotten at the back of some drawer.

Probably not. The Cullens eventually moved away and Esme was always thorough. Surely it was thrown out with the rest of the trash.

Buried the deepest was the small, worn velvet box that held a Cullen family heirloom. One Bella was asked to return.

She opened the box and tilted the contents up to the overhead light. The gold shone rich in the way only antique jewelry can. A delicate chain was tucked behind the velvet pillow that cushioned the heart-shaped locket. Edward hadn't been able to find a photograph of them that would fit, so he had written a note in his strangely elegant handwriting. He'd folded the tiny piece of stationery like origami and tucked it into the locket.

Bella opened it, and the paper fell into her hand. It was darker now, from the many times she'd unfolded and refolded it. She smoothed out the small paper and read, "only the beginning…"

The words stuck in her chest.

They should have been true. Ten years on, she could still see that what they had, though colored by youth, had been good. Real. It could have stood the test of time.

But when Edward gave Bella the locket, telling her it was, like his heart, hers forever, it hadn't been the beginning. At the end of that day, all Bella had was the locket, and a slip of paper with the prettiest lie anyone had ever told her.

To her credit, Bella didn't cry about it anymore, even now, sitting on the floor of her girlhood bedroom in Forks. She'd made a life for herself. She had friends, a career, even a house. She laughed and drank wine and saw films. She had even dated a few times, though it never amounted to anything.

Because Bella didn't want to love again. That desire had died a slow death, beginning when Edward and Alice cut her out of their lives and ending with Charlie's last breath.

What Bella wanted was to withhold, hence the arrangement with Him. It suited them both perfectly. His pleasure came from pushing her body to the brink, hers from refusing to fall. She could resist for long stretches, dancing along a cliff's edge, concentrating so fully that the world fell away. And when her resistance had all but crystallized, He would force her over the edge, plummeting into orgasm after orgasm until nothing else existed. No Edward. No Alice. No sorrow or loss. Just sweet, painful release.

So it was time. Bella tucked the velvet box in the pocket of her jeans, covered the banker's box and locked the house. She took the spare key from the light by the front door, slipping it into the box. Edward had used that key sometimes, too.

She drove past the closed stores and darkened diner, her tires humming quietly down the highway. The entrance to the long private drive was overgrown, but she found it easily. As tree branches brushed against her windows, she was grateful for her car—ironically, a Volvo. She could never have managed this in the loud old truck she drove in high school.

After two miles, she watched for the fork that would lead her toward the meadow. When the path became impossible to drive, she got out and walked, notebook in hand, the jewelry box still in her pocket.

The moon was high overhead and bright enough to write by when Bella entered the clearing. She paced the perimeter, memorizing the meadow one last time, then settled in the damp grass where she and Edward had made love for the first and only time. The sun had shone on their bare skin as they finally gave themselves to each other completely. Bella had been utterly dazzled—by Edward, by how their bodies fitted together. And as he held her afterward, he'd clasped the locket around her neck, the words enclosed a promise between them.

They arrived back at the Cullen house to find a car parked in front and strangers on the porch, but they were only strangers to Bella. Everyone else seemed to know the tall strawberry blonde who ran down the steps and threw her arms around Edward's neck, planting a deep kiss on his mouth. It was only as his arms wrapped around the blonde that Bella realized he'd dropped her hand.

Then Alice raced through the front door, a beribboned gift in hand. But she came to a dead halt at the sight of Edward and Tanya. When she met Bella's gaze, instead of shrieking birthday greetings and tackling her with the present she'd been dropping hints about all week, Alice paled and swallowed hard.

Charged silence descended on the porch, where Carlisle, Esme and what Bella later learned were Tanya's parents and sister were sitting. It broke when Edward, without a glance in Bella's direction, asked Alice to drive her home.

She had found her voice then, though it was a watery one. "I have my truck, I can drive myself." She patted her pocket, but Edward had driven it earlier.

Instead of dropping the keys into her outstretched hand, Edward wound up to toss them to his sister. "Alice should take you."

"No." Bella grabbed Edward's arm and tried to pry the keys away. He gripped her hand tightly before relinquishing them, his eyes pleading. But he didn't speak to her again until days later, and then only to walk her into the woods to explain that he didn't want her anymore. She had been a distraction. He would always love her in a way, but she'd get over him soon enough. Not a word or a even a glance in her direction after that. It had been as if she didn't exist.

#

_Edward,_

_I had an unexpected visit from Alice today. She stopped in at Charlie's to give me her condolences. A day later and she would have missed me. I finished clearing out the house this evening._

_She said she'd heard of Charlie's death from you, and that you're here. That you've opened your parents' house. She said I deserved to know._

_I realize she betrayed a confidence, but don't worry: after tonight, I won't intrude on your life. Now that Charlie's house is ready for the market, I have no reason to come back to Forks. So there won't be any of those awkward "bumping into the ex" moments._

_The night of our graduation, Tanya explained to me that your parents wished me to return your grandmother's locket. At the time, I was too hurt to do that. In fact, I told Tanya I'd pawned it._

_As you can see, I kept it. That was wrong of me. It belongs in your family. Perhaps someday you will wish to give it to the woman you spend your life with. (Tanya?) Or maybe a daughter. I always pictured you with a daughter._

_I won't be back, but Forks will always have a place in my heart. _

_I hope you find happiness here. One of us should._

_Bella_

The letter had come slowly. By the time she finished, the moon was beginning to set. It was hours past her curfew; no doubt He would impose consequences. How many privileges would he deny her? What stress positions would she be required to hold? As she stretched then twisted her hair into a bun, securing it with her pen, Bella ached for the quiet mind that came with punishment.

It was a rare cloudless night as she descended from the meadow. The trees cast stark shadows in the bright moonlight, just as they had the night of the graduation party.

Half the school had been invited. Some of the girls even brought their invitations to school to prove they'd been asked to the Cullens' party.

Bella's heart had surged when she opened her locker one morning and found an envelope taped inside the door. Alice and Edward both had her combination. That's how they'd gotten in to steal the many photos of her and Edward that she'd hung there. Somehow, the nightmare of the past eight months was over. But scrawled across the envelope was a note from Alice's boyfriend Jasper: "They don't know I've given you this, but if it were me, I'd want the choice."

When the party was in full flow, Bella drove up the private drive and took the path that led away from the house. By the time she'd hiked up to the meadow, she could feel more than hear the thumping bass of the club music blasting from the Cullens' yard. She sat in the spot where they'd made love and composed a letter to Edward and another to Alice. She had nearly finished and was drying her eyes when she heard people approaching. She scrambled into the trees, hiding in their shadows just as Tanya and Edward emerged from the trees on the opposite side of the meadow. Edward was staggering, clearly drunk, but Tanya spotted her.

She tugged Edward around and put her hands on his chest. "I forgot the blanket. Go get it? Please?" She rubbed one of her long legs against Edward's and flicked back her hair, which looked silver in the moonlight.

Edward grumbled something Bella couldn't hear; Tanya murmured a reply and Edward disappeared into the trees again.

As soon as he was gone, Tanya turned on her. "You weren't invited."

Bella stepped out of the trees into the moonlight. This place felt like territory she had the right to defend. She pulled the invitation from her journal and held it up so that the printing and her middle finger faced Tanya. "Yes I was."

"That little bitch!" Tanya crossed the distance until they were just a few feet apart. "If she thinks—"

Bella smiled at Tanya for the first time ever. "It wasn't from Alice."

Tanya froze, then stalked forward, towering over her. "He doesn't want you. He wants me. It's always been me. You know that, right? We were together when he lived in Alaska."

It was Bella's turn to freeze.

"He didn't tell you?" Tanya ran her eyes from Bella's head to her shoes; it made her feel dirty. She couldn't help cowering away. "I assumed you knew. You seem like the type."

"The type?" Bella knew what she was implying. Tanya was clearly as wealthy as the Cullens. Bella wasn't.

"Guys do that, you know. Go slumming. Sow their wild oats."

Bella could hardly breathe.

"They want it back."

"What?"

"The locket. I heard Carlisle and Esme talking about it. They're pretty sure they know how you wangled it out of him, but it's a family heirloom and they want it back. They were going to give it to me for graduation until they found out you had it."

She grabbed Bella's shirt and wrenched it off her shoulder, but found no telltale chain. Bella only wore the locket when she slept; now, it was safely tucked into the pocket of her jeans.

She stood perfectly still as Tanya's words sank in. In the beginning, she'd never been able to justify in her own mind why someone like Edward would want her. But she'd allowed him to persuade her she was the only one for him. And despite what he'd said to her in the woods and how he'd behaved afterward, it hadn't occurred to Bella that it all might have been a game to him. But now she understood. She'd been a joke. She could see his wicked smile, hear his laugh as he told Tanya he'd been slumming. And the locket? It wasn't love. It was proof of conquest.

Bella straightened, squaring her shoulders. "Tell Edward I sold it." Charlie, at his wit's end, had sent her to Jacksonville over Christmas break that year. It was visit Renee or check into the hospital. The whole town knew this, she was sure—it was the kind of gossip that made the rounds, even among the adults. "It's in an antiques shop in Jacksonville if he wants to buy it back." She hoped Tanya told him. She wanted to hurt him somehow, if only just a little.

Tanya eyed her warily, but then Edward stumbled through the trees again, and Bella scurried for cover. When she was safely hidden, Bella looked back.

Edward was kissing Tanya while pulling up her skirt. Then he pushed on her shoulder and she fell to her knees, a hand at his zipper. And Edward looked past her, straight into Bella's eyes.

Bella held his gaze for an everlasting moment as Tanya slid the zipper down and ducked her head. Then Bella ran and ran, not caring that she was going in the wrong direction. When she reached the river, she was still holding the letters for Edward and Alice, but not her journal. Given what she'd learned from Tanya, the letters were ridiculous. Bella was too ashamed of them to even throw them in the river—they could wash up on the bank. She used a stick to shove them deep into the crevice of a rock, where time and rain would break them down and no one would ever see them.

After what could have been minutes or hours of watching the light play off the water as the river sped past, Bella eventually retraced her steps. She found her journal in the trees where she'd been hiding when Edward returned. She leaned back against one of them, wrote a short entry and closed that journal for the last time.

#

Dawn was breaking by the time Bella made it back to her car. She drove down to the fork in the road and walked the distance to the house, letter and jewelry box in hand. She had planned to set them on the porch, hoping he'd see them, but uncharacteristically, his car was parked in front of the house.

Or maybe it wasn't uncharacteristic. She didn't know him anymore; perhaps she never had. A lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back. It was something He had taught her: how tears weakened her resistance. Besides, she had a four-hour drive ahead of her, followed by two classes and a department meeting. Bella would call Him after the meeting; she would kneel and confess. Then she only had to wait. The relief of punishment would come.

She approached the car quietly, hoping it wasn't locked. She pictured triggering the car alarm and having to make a run for it. For no good reason, the thought made her laugh, hard but silent, until she felt weak in the limbs. Then she pictured Edward, hair in wild disarray as it always was after sleep, staggering onto the porch, a wedding ring glinting in the moonlight.

That sobered her up.

She opened the door without triggering any horns or flashing lights, and Edward's scent wafted from the car. Bella closed her eyes and breathed it in. For just a moment, she could feel his arms around her waist, his breath at her ear.

No.

She set the letter on the driver's seat and straightened to fish the box from her pocket. Lifting the lid one last time, she opened the locket and took out the piece of paper. It was hers. She wouldn't give it back.

But it gave her an idea. She tore a corner off the letter and took the pen from her hair. It spilled around her shoulders as she bent over the roof of Edward's car to write two small words. Then she folded the scrap of paper and closed it in the locket. She shut the box, kissed its velvet lid, placed it on the letter, then quietly clicked the door shut and walked away.

Her car's engine purred to life as she sighed deeply. She had done it, severed the last tie. And left her heart the only place she could.

In less than six hours, she'd once again be standing before a class full of students with varying levels of enthusiasm for the works of Jane Austen. To anyone watching, she'd look like a woman absorbed in teaching and research for her next scholarly work, a woman who took pleasure in cooking well and keeping a comfortable home. But at 6 p.m. Friday, she would surrender herself to Jacob's ropes and blindfolds, to impossible positions and the promise of punishment. It was the only relief she'd ever found.

Bella made it to the end of the long driveway before she whispered the words she'd written. "The end." Then, with the tears finally streaming down her cheeks, she hit the gas the way Edward used to do and sped her way toward Seattle.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are a gift, and I'm a greedy girl. Please consider sharing your thoughts about the story. Constructive criticism is as welcome as praise.**

**This story was inspired by photo prompt #5 for the Beyond the Pale Contest. Thanks, ladies, for providing the prompt that inspired this story, and the deadline that made me write instead of just thinking about it.**

**Thanks to the judges, especially dihenydd, for awarding Release the Cherry Popper Award and the Best Use of Photo Prompt Award. Your vote of confidence means the world to me.**

**Readers, your kind reviews have reinforced my decision to continue this story. Chapter 2 is with my lovely beta, and will be posted soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own the Penguin Classics edition of Charlotte Bronte's **_**Jane Eyre**_**, a set of lacy grey scanties, the premise of this story and all of the carrots, cabbage, tomatoes, turnips, potatoes, onions and leeks needed to make my favorite vegetable soup. **

**Many thanks to Serendipitous, my lovely, talented and funny beta. You're the best, bb.**

The three-story glass-and-timber house looked like it belonged in some post-modern snow globe: a perfect house surrounded by perfect trees. A perfect tree fort perched on one of the branches, a perfect tire swing hanging from another. Next to a perfect pergola in a perfect flower garden. Edward could almost feel the globe in his hands. He wanted to shake it until dollar bills floated up then settled on all of it like tainted snowflakes.

But the cold smoothness in his hands was a wet rock from the riverbank. Edward threw it in the water and watched the moonlight ripple across the broken surface. Nights had always been the worst. He saw ghosts of Bella everywhere, and though he hadn't laid eyes on her in ten years, he knew she was in Forks this weekend. Jessica Newton made sure of that, practically shouting it to the cashier two lanes down from hers at the grocery store. When he felt Jessica's eyes on him, evaluating his reaction, Edward had schooled his face into impassiveness. He was good at it, very good—and it had made him a fortune.

It was amazing the skills you could master when you didn't sleep.

Edward picked up a small, flat stone and threw. It skipped across the surface before sinking to the riverbed just shy of the opposite bank. He ached to sit at his piano. But Alice was asleep in her old bedroom, and Edward didn't want to wake her. Their relationship had been, at best, strained since Bella's eighteenth birthday. Since he left for college, he only saw his family at command performances—weddings, graduations, christenings. Even then, he and Alice avoided each other. It was easier that way. So why had Alice come?

The trees cast sharp shadows in the moonlight on the opposite bank, and no wind stirred, but Edward could have sworn he saw movement. He rose to his feet, standing on a huge, flat rock that jutted out over the water. Perhaps he was just remembering. The years had begun to cloud his memories of Bella. Sometimes, for brief moments, he couldn't recall whether a particular memory was from a dream or something that really happened.

Edward silently let himself into the house via the patio door from the kitchen. He looked back at the river and thought about the meadow.

He hadn't been back there since the night of the graduation party. Since he last looked into Bella's eyes.

He slipped off his shoes and padded through the kitchen to the great room. After running a hand over the smooth slanted lid of his baby grand, he sat at the bench. His fingers soundlessly ghosted over the keys, his eyes closing as he listened within for a melody he'd once created but never written down. It was for Bella, about Bella—a lullaby to soothe away the nightmares he witnessed on nights he snuck in through her window in the months after his betrayal. He hadn't permitted himself to play it for years, and now feared it was, like so much else, lost to him. But the melody he composed during those awful nights sitting in the rocking chair watching her thrash and call for him played in his head though the room remained silent.

When the last note of the lullaby faded, he opened his eyes on the scene beyond the floor-to-ceiling window and saw her. She stood at his car with the door open. She pulled something from her hair and it cascaded down around her shoulders. Then she bent to write.

Edward sat, transfixed by his hallucination. He had them when insomnia kept him awake for days at a time, but no previous hallucination had given him a clear view of Bella. She was always maddeningly out of sight.

Tonight, the moonlight poured over her, and he could see her hair, shorter and straighter, and her cheek, lit by moonlight. Her hands as they folded something. Her lips as she kissed something else then placed it in his car. And finally, her whole face as she looked up at the house, her eyes luminous and still, after all these years, silently questioning.

Then she turned and walked down the driveway. It wasn't until she tripped slightly over a tree root that Edward realized she wasn't another hallucination. Bella was here at—he pulled his phone from his pocket and checked—four-eighteen in the morning. And she was walking away.

He stood, frozen, watching her go. She squared her shoulders as she walked, as if she were settling something within herself. It struck his exhausted mind as the sort of gesture Eve might have made when she finally turned her back on the closed gates of Eden. He was still standing there half an hour later when a hand on his arm startled him.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Edward shook his head and looked down at her. The dark circles under Alice's eyes told him she hadn't either. She nodded and turned toward the kitchen.

Edward opened the front door and descended the steps in bare feet. Now that day was dawning, it didn't seem real. He had to know for sure. He went around and opened the driver's door.

The worn velvet box sat on a folded piece of paper with a corner torn off of it. His knees buckled and he had to sit down on the bare dirt of the driveway.

For all the ways he had wronged Bella, the locket was the one thing he'd gotten right. He meant what he'd written; it had been his only truth. The single act he could never, despite what followed, bring himself to regret. What he saw in Bella's eyes that day, as he pressed into her sun-warmed body amid the tall grass in the meadow, made him believe that her love could redeem him.

He'd given Bella his heart that day. Finding it under the floorboard in her old bedroom all those years ago had comforted him. She kept his heart, or what remained of it, with her most treasured possessions. Knowing it was safe with Bella had helped him face each miserable step away from her.

But now it was back. She'd given it back. Edward couldn't bring himself to touch the box or the paper beneath it until Alice emerged from the house with two coffee mugs in hand. Then he shoved both into the pocket of his jeans and stood.

Edward mounted the stairs and took the mug Alice held out for him. He sipped at the coffee and watched her watching him. He wanted to fidget under her gray gaze, but resisted by initiating safe conversation. "When is your flight?"

It was Alice's turn to squirm. "About that." She hesitated and blew on her coffee without meeting his eyes.

"About what? I thought you had a flight this afternoon."

Alice set her mug on the porch railing, which she grasped with both hands. "I've asked Sam to come out and look over the Porsche. I have some business in Seattle, and I'll be here for a few weeks. I'd like to use the house as home base if you don't mind."

"What business, Alice?" His tone was as grim. This violated all of their unspoken rules.

"Personal business." Alice turned away without meeting his eyes and went back in the house.

Fuck.

Edward finished his own coffee and Alice's, wincing at the sweetener she'd added to hers. Then he sat on the porch swing Tanya's parents had occupied that fateful day. Eleazar's stare was the first thing he'd noticed when he and Bella emerged from the woods, and his first impulse was to pretend she wasn't important. To protect her. He hadn't seen Tanya coming until she was wrapped around him like the succubus she turned out to be.

Succubus. It wasn't fair to call her that. He'd played his part—all too well.

Alice worried him. She hadn't brought Jasper along, which was rare. Could she really be having personal problems?

He looked through the open front door and saw no sign of Alice, so he slid his hand in his pocket and withdrew the paper and the locket.

He sat the box on his knee and opened the letter.

What he read gutted him.

The one good thing he'd given Bella, and Tanya had ruined it. All these years, Bella had believed he regretted giving it to her. And that his parents wanted it back.

Lies. Maybe Tanya was a succubus after all.

No. Just a girl misled by her family, her ambitions, and promises Edward should never have made.

He stood and gathered the coffee mugs while assembling his game face. He didn't know what Alice was up to, but feared her good intentions more than almost anything else.

Inside, they ate breakfast without conversation. By the time they'd finished loading the dishwasher, Sam was knocking at the front door.

Edward escaped to his bedroom on the third floor. He took the box from his pocket and set it on the nightstand, suddenly and overwhelmingly exhausted. He stripped off his jeans and shirt and slid under the covers before picking up the velvet box. He stroked its worn lid then opened it.

The locket lay on its pillow, the chain pooled behind it. Edward stroked the gold heart with his fingertip, remembering how it shone against Bella's chest in the sunlight.

He needed to see it—the piece of paper with his one true promise. His hands, usually so dexterous and elegant, struggled. His thumbnails were too short to open the locket, but at last he managed it.

A folded piece of paper tumbled out onto his bare chest as he sat propped against his headboard. It looked wrong, torn at one edge and lined. He'd carefully cut the piece of blank stationery he used. He unfolded the scrap and read two devastating words.

Edward threw off the covers and staggered to the bathroom, certain his breakfast was coming back up, but it didn't. His dry heaves devolved into loud, gulping, tearless sobs.

In the ten years since he left Forks, Edward had never stopped loving Bella, never stopped wanting her, and wanting her happiness even more. For the first time ever, there on the floor of his bathroom, he cried for his losses, for all the ways he'd brought them on himself, and above all for failing Bella.

When he woke later, he was stiff from being curled up on the tile. He still clutched the tiny paper in his fist.

Edward hurried down to the first floor. Alice had to know where Bella was. He had repeatedly forbidden her to keep tabs on Bella, but she most likely had anyway.

He searched the lower level and was about to head back up to check Alice's bedroom when he saw the open garage door. Alice's car was gone.

Edward took both flights of stairs two steps at a time and retrieved his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans.

He flipped it open and tapped out: _Where are you?_

Moments later, his phone beeped. _You can't stop me this time._

He sank onto the leather couch in his bedroom and slid his hand into a carefully concealed slit in one of the back cushions. He withdrew two wrinkled letters and set them on the nightstand beside Bella's note from this morning and the scrap of paper from the locket. Then he tapped his keys again. _Come back. There's something you need to see._

**A/N: To everyone who has already reviewed, thank you. It means so much to me when you take the time to share your thoughts about the story.**

**So… *blinks at you with great big puppy eyes* … maybe you'd be kind enough to review this chapter? **

**I hear Edward slow-dances with each reviewer. It's only a rumor, but you wouldn't want to miss out, would you?**

**A shout out to the Ladies of the UoEM Thread: the way you support and encourage each other touches my heart. Thanks for taking me under your wing. *curtsies to the slore sisterhood***

Page 6 of 6


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a garden gargoyle turned clothing model, a grey beret with black embroidered leaves, the premise of this story and enough marble tile to do my bathroom floor and tub surround. Yeah, because I had sooo much fun that month we spent doing the kitchen floor.**

**Much love to my beta Serendipitous, who made me feel good about this chapter, then asked in her best Edna Mode, "I'm looking forward to the next chapter! You *are* writing it, right?" **

**Gulp. Mango does a wicked Edna, btw. And, um, yes. Sort of. *toes the ground* Well, I'm trying, all right? *deploys diversionary tactic* I love you—and Edna.**

**The brilliant and insightful Isabeausink has signed on to pre-read, and helped with this chapter. Kindred spirit, bb. xo  
**

**Chapter 3  
**

With the Porsche's astonishingly high-quality speakers blasting Pink's U + Ur Hand, Alice belted out the lyrics and strong-armed the car through an S-curve at about 88 miles per hour. If she'd needed any further proof, the past 24 hours made it official: everything was completely, utterly, possibly irretrievably fucked up. It was so true, she needed to tell someone. She rolled down her window and interrupted her singing long enough to shriek "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED UUUUUUUUUUUP!" to the trees, then powered it up again. She had her hair to consider.

For the first time in ages, Alice was awake to her bones; she could practically feel her own cells or molecules or whatever the hell they were vibrating in her. And she offered a middle-finger salute to the notion that this burst of energy might be espresso related.

This was the real deal. The chips were down in every arena, the odds insurmountable, and Alice was high as a kite with the notion that she could, at last, set everything to rights. She would have it all: her brother, her best friend, her husband, all restored to her. The high-definition picture in her head showed her family reunited. Except when it flickered, which she wouldn't allow.

Alice glanced at her phone and displayed Edward's text again. Of course he had something to show her _now_, but it was ten years too late and he was out of trump cards. Alice snapped her phone shut and dropped it into her handbag. She'd done things his way for far too long: Edward would have to play by her rules now. And he would have to wait. Alice had to stop Jasper before he did something neither of them could recover from.

Once inside Seattle's city limits, Alice navigated to an apartment building not far from the university. It was small and far too upscale for student housing, and, typical Jasper, it looked like something out of a Civil War drama.

Jasper had sent her keys. It was part of their pretend-everything-is-fine routine to ignore the distance between them, which started across the breakfast table in their London townhouse and now encompassed an ocean and a continent. It was a miracle the media had yet to catch wind of it—they kept tabs on him, too. He was the creator of the highest grossing video game of 2008, the strangely beautiful if spectacularly bloody Southern Vampire Wars; the Seattle newspapers were itching for any story that would explain his failure to follow up his blockbuster debut.

Alice drove slowly around the tiny parking lot, looking for a clue as to whether Jasper was here. When she spotted the telltale bumper sticker: I FOUGHT AT GETTYSBURG on a Prius, she swerved into the nearest visitor parking space.

She turned the key silently, having a fairly good idea of what she'd find inside. For all of his fine qualities, Jasper was a man of habit, and would return to well-worn routines, regardless of how unhappy they made him, when running from his life. From her.

Sure enough, the Confederate major's dress uniform jacket he wore for Civil War re-enactments hung haphazardly across the shoulders of a dressmaker's dummy that stood in a corner of the living room. Though she'd hand sewed every stitch in painstakingly authentic detail, she hated the thing. Alice could hear them down the hallway, but took her time, peeking into a bedroom that served as his home office.

His books of Civil War and Texas history, the inspiration, along with re-enacting, for the video game that made him famous, filled the shelves that lined his office. His scabbard hung above the window behind his desk, which held two computers and stacks of books and papers. She could picture him standing amid the desktop chaos in his riding boots to bring it down for weekend events.

Another few steps down the hallway, a petticoat lay discarded on the carpet. Alice approached the final door, which stood ajar. She pushed it open far enough to see Jasper, his honey-colored hair in waves that touched his shoulders like an authentic antebellum Southern gentleman. If he weren't so beautiful, he'd look like Colonel Sanders. He sat back against the headboard—antique, of course—with his dick sticking out of his button-up trousers. He still had on the shirt and vest.

And Maria, naked, was swinging a leg over him, positioning said dick at her entrance as she murmured, "Oh, Major."

Alice only managed to choke back a laugh—really? _Oh, Major?_—because she wanted to scare the shit out them. Or at least Maria.

She stepped into Jasper's line of sight just as she said, "That's mine. Get your hands and everything else off of it."

Maria let out a startled shriek and scrambled for something to cover herself with, but her godforsaken Southern-belle-turned-dirt-scratch-farmer dress was on the floor.

So Alice stood on it. She needed to make a point.

Jasper's cock had wilted, and after Alice raised an eyebrow at him, he bowed his head to tuck it away and button his fly.

Maria, who had managed to wrest the bedspread from under Jasper, stood wrapped in it, muttering expletives as she gathered her muslin chemise and yet another petticoat. She quickly donned them then stepped toward Alice and waited.

When Alice refused to budge, Maria yanked at the dress and said in her—Alice had to admit it, _muy cachonda_—Tex-Mex accent, "He can be himself with me."

Alice snorted. "Honey, he's not Stonewall Jackson. He's Jasper Whitlock, and he's mine." Jasper, for all his fuckery, was her soul mate and she was his. He just got lost sometimes.

When she'd stood her ground long enough to make her point, Alice stepped off of the dress and lifted it with the toe of her Ungaro boot.

After Maria was dressed, Alice extended her arm as if showing her where the door was and said, "Leave your key on the kitchen island on your way out."

Maria glared at her. "I don't have—"

Alice smiled. "I didn't think so."

Maria shot a look at Jasper, whose face was now clouded with shame. He murmured, "Sorry, darlin'" and brushed past her, clicking the en suite bathroom door closed behind him.

Maria turned, but Alice sidestepped to get in front of her again. Maria shot a glance at the closed bathroom door, as if she intended to wait for Jasper's return. Alice rolled her eyes. "He's not using the facilities, Maria. He's in full retreat."

Then she sighed. "You need to listen to me. He won't be back." She touched Maria's arm gently; really, this was as much for her own good as Alice's. "He loves me, and I'm not going anywhere. You don't want to spend your life playing second string."

Maria's brown eyes filled and Alice almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She took her elbow and steered her toward the hall. When she reached the outer door, she held it open and ushered Maria across the threshold. "I'll tell Jasper you said goodbye."

Jasper kneeled with his forehead and one hand against the bathroom door. Alice was out there, her megawatt energy like a beacon guiding him home. He was just too ashamed to open the door and go to her. He'd slipped. Again. He'd developed some difficult-to-overcome habits in college, including Maria and the role-playing games she'd introduced him to.

But Alice had always been his shining hope, even when he was buried too deep in other lives and times to feel it.

But god, he could feel her again. She was alive, crackling. And he didn't deserve her.

"Stop it, Jasper." Her voice came from down the hall. He could picture her, pacing the living room, already making plans to furnish it with half her brain as she worked out the current puzzle of their life with the other half, and with a few thoughts to spare for where to eat dinner and whether acid green belonged in her spring collection after all.

Given his family's history in Galveston, he couldn't call her Hurricane Alice; she was anything but destructive. But she packed just as much punch when she could get a clear line of sight on a project, and he could feel it: she had one now.

"He's back, Jasper." Her voice was close now, just outside the door. "Edward is back in Forks to stay."

Well, that was news. She'd waited for this for so long. Jasper ached to sweep her up and spin her around until her legs swung out in a wide circle. Where was his cowboy hat when he needed it? Probably in the same closet where he'd stowed his integrity. He shifted, sitting with his back to the door, his arms crossed over his knees, head cradled there so he wouldn't see himself in any of the mirrors. Not only did he fuck things up, he had some sort of demented empathy that required him to feel what his fuck-ups did to everyone around him. Knowing what he knew, or more accurately, feeling what he'd felt, how could he ever forgive himself?

He just about pissed himself when something hard, most likely Alice's fist, slammed against the door. "Get out here right now, Jasper Whitlock. You don't get to hide your head and wallow." How did she do that? He'd loved her since he was seventeen and he still didn't know. "We're going to fix this once and for all, and the clock's ticking."

She was silent for a long moment then knocked more quietly. "You've got five minutes. Then we're going to Bella's."

Bella? Alice was on one of her impossible missions. His heart simultaneously trembled and soared. Bella was the most damaged victim of a Jasper FUBAR, so this would make or break them. All of them, he could feel it. Jasper stripped out of his reenactment clothes and started the shower. He would face Alice in a moment, but not before he'd washed away some small layer of blame.

Alice stood on the balcony off of the bedroom wiping her eyes. He had decided to do the irrevocable, and that's what hurt. It hardly mattered that she'd been here in time to stop him. She let the magnitude of it sink in until her phone alarm chimed. It had been five minutes. That's all she got, too.

She shook herself a little and bounced on her toes like a runner getting ready at the starting line. She opened the baggie she'd found in Jasper's nightstand and sprinkled its contents into the breeze. It looked harmless as it fell to the parking lot, like so much dried parsley, but it had started everything. If Jasper hadn't been fucking around on Edward's computer researching the latest varieties of his favorite recreational herb, he wouldn't have unwittingly set in motion the chain of events that landed Eleazar and his family in Forks.

Unfortunately, Jasper still blamed himself for all the misery that followed. Especially his attempt to fix it, which apparently backfired the night of the graduation party. Jasper never had told her exactly what happened, despite ten years of wheedling, cajoling, demanding, pouting and the occasional thrown shoe. Now, the time for secrets was over. As she fiddled with the empty baggie, trying to decide what to do with it, an arm reached around her taking it without touching her.

"I'll get rid of it later." As Jasper tucked it under the cushion of the deck chair wedged in the far corner, Alice drank him in: his blonde hair was wet, leaving damp patches on the long-sleeved T-shirt he wore over a pair of jeans so worn that the denim was as soft as velvet—she lightly ran her thumb over her fingertips, remembering. He was all angles and lean muscles, and moved fluidly, as if his Texas accent were translated into motion. Every line of him was meant to be hers—every word, every touch, every breath.

And then he stood before her. She aligned herself so they mirrored each other and searched his eyes as he searched hers. It was a silent conversation of regret and mistakes and loss and desire.

After a suspended moment, Jasper touched a finger to the back of Alice's hand, moving it in a gentle circle. Alice nodded and he pulled her into an embrace. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in a lungful of his scent as his arms encompassed her. The thought of losing him—losing this connection—choked the breath out of her. When she pulled away, she worked to mask the terror, meeting his gaze with the brightest expression she could manage.

Jasper looked like he wanted to apologize, but Alice couldn't let him. Not now. This conversation had to wait. They needed to see Bella first because Alice couldn't plan until she saw what Bella decided. She would know just by looking in her eyes.

Alice shook her head slightly and Jasper's shoulders slumped. He looked half defeated, half relieved. "Soon," he said, his voice firm with finality.

Alice closed her eyes and nodded. "Soon."

"Do you have any bags we should bring up before—"

"I won't be staying here." Alice's eyes flitted toward the bedroom, to the headboard he'd been leaning against just an hour before with a naked woman in his arms. "My things are in Forks." She knew he didn't want Maria the way he wanted her. She also knew she couldn't share his bed now, with it all so fresh in her heart. If it happened again, she'd cut him loose, soul mate or no. She had no choice.

He seemed to sense her resolve and his face darkened. "And how long will you be in town, Miss Alice?" He stood straighter, his voice stiff and formal.

"As long as it takes." She didn't blink, willing him to meet her halfway.

Understanding washed over his face, and he hung his head. "I love you. So much." His voice was deep and quiet, confessing.

Alice's eyes welled and she looked away, catching a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand. She put her hand over his heart to feel it beating. "I know, Jaz." Then she slipped past him, slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the door, knowing he'd follow. Knowing that if they had any hope of saving their marriage, they had to save their family, too.

For that, they needed Bella.

**A/N: A huge thank-you to Oliviamk1218, who recommended Release on Twitter and brought me many new readers.**

**And a story rec for you:**

**Incunabula Or: The Golden Legend, by suitablyironicmonkier: Bella is a curator specializing in incunabula (books printed prior to 1500). Edward is a private collector and her nemesis, building his private collection at her museum's expense. **

**When museum director Carlisle Cullen dispatches Bella on a race against the clock to find the Burgundian Golden Legend, a book they're not sure even really exists, she teams up with Texan-born visiting professor Jasper Whitlock in Prague. As they scour a region still haunted, sixty years later, by the scars of World War II, they follow unlikely clues, hoping against hope and working against the odds. **

**And Edward is hot on their heels, pursuing the book and Bella with what seems like more than a professional interest. But is there another danger, a deadly one? **

**This Bella and Edward are like no other, and the setting is magnificent. I'm enjoying the armchair travels just as much as the intricate, suspenseful story.**

**She's got 18 beautifully written chapters posted, and I can't wait to find out where suitablyironicmoniker takes us next. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a new (but not yet installed) power steering pump, a new-to-me kitchen table and chairs (viva la Craigslist!) and a gorgeous scarf from Thailand. The last was a gift from a dear friend who visited us last night—twice in one year! We are so lucky.**

**My beta Serendipitous and pre-reader Isabaeausink helped me work through the clues in this chapter. It didn't come easily, and they were tremendously helpful. The chapter has changed a lot since they saw it, in response to their spot-on suggestions. Since I didn't want to delay posting any longer, I'm going for it. Any errors here are mine alone.**

**Chapter 4**

At the knock, Bella jerked awake, said, "I'll be right with you," and hit save on her computer. She had left her door ajar, intending to keep her regular office hours and work on her book when the department meeting was postponed. But the past 24 hours caught up with her the moment she settled into her chair. She stifled a yawn before turning to face the door.

When she saw who stood at the threshold, she set her reading glasses on her desk and rubbed her face. This couldn't be happening.

"You haven't slept at all, have you?" Alice's eyes were all concern. If Jacob had dug deep in his playroom closet, he couldn't have come up with a more painful and unexpected punishment.

"Bella, it's good to see you again. I'm sorry to hear about Charlie." Jasper Whitlock stepped toward her, hand extended for a gentlemanly shake.

Jasper. He'd been the only one of them willing even to make eye contact with her after the day that changed everything. She clasped his hand in both of hers. "Thank you." When everyone else abandoned her, they'd shared a silent solidarity, exchanging nods and half-smiles in the halls of Forks High School. And she'd never forgotten the invitation.

Jasper nodded. "It's been a long time. Too long."

What could she possibly say to that? Bella's mouth pressed into a grim line. "Well, what brings you to Seattle?"

Jasper just continued to gaze at Bella, his eyes moving back and forth between hers as if searching and she suddenly doubted him, too. The little she knew about their lives now came from the news media: they were virtual strangers.

"Bella."

At the sound of Alice's voice, Jasper dropped Bella's hand and stepped back, making room for Alice to get around the desk. Bella froze, unable to avoid Alice's embrace.

"Please." To her credit, Bella felt, she'd never once asked Alice or Edward for anything. Not even an explanation. She'd had enough pride to keep herself from begging. But not now—she all but begged Alice to let her go.

Alice released her and retreated to the other side of the desk. Bella gestured to the chairs there, relieved to have them at a safer distance. Jasper tucked one in behind Alice before folding himself into the other.

She was so tired she couldn't keep tears from pricking at her eyes. Bella turned away to hide them, staring at the window behind her desk until she was sure her voice would be steady, detached. "Nothing for ten years and now two days in a row?" She flattened her hand on the glass, watched it fog around her fingers.

"I never should have listened to him, Bella. I'll regret what I did for the rest of my life."

"Why, Alice?" She removed her hand and breathed on the glass until its outline dissolved in the blank, gray oval of condensation. "Technically, you didn't _do_ anything. Not a single thing."

"You have to know it wasn't what I wanted. You were my best friend. I was dying."

If this were high school, Bella would have written EDWARD in the fog: his name, her breath. Instead, she swiped it away with her sleeve. "From where I stood, it looked like business as usual."

"I didn't have a choice."

Bella spun around, eyes flashing, no longer the composed academic she'd worked so hard to become. "_You_ didn't have a choice? You had _everything_." She sounded a little hysterical, her voice pitched high and wild. "You had your perfect clothes, your perfect family, your perfect friends—you even had the perfect boyfriend!" Bella slammed her laptop shut despite having files open. Alice's eyes were nothing but sympathy, and it fueled her outrage. "Oh, and you and your brother pulled off the practical joke of the year on naïve little Bella Swan." She took a deep breath, realizing how loud she'd become. After casting a furtive glance at the hallway, which was, mercifully, empty of both students and colleagues, she hissed, deadly quiet, "What more did you want?"

Alice's face drained. "You can't believe that."

She'd landed a blow, and it steadied her. "What would you have me believe, Alice?" She reached under the desk for her bag and slipped the laptop in, then sat and propped her chin on her hands, elbows on the desk. "I'm ready: dazzle me. I'm sure there's a perfectly good reason for your pretense of friendship. And for why you let me believe Edward cared about me when he had a real girlfriend in Alaska." Bella paused, almost enjoying Alice's horrified expression. "And why it was okay to cut and run when the joke was over."

"You were never a joke, Bella. Never."

When Alice choked out an unladylike sob, Bella gave an equally unladylike snort and made a grab for her trench, which hung on a coat tree in the corner.

Jasper reached across the desk and caught her arm. "She's right, Bella."

She shook her head. "Et tu, Jasper?" She knew this intersection of history and literature would be familiar to him: she'd played his video game. "I always thought better of you."

Jasper came around the desk without releasing her. He gently took her shoulders and turned her to face him, his blue eyes steady and unflinching. "I would never lie to you."

Clearly Jasper believed what he said, but Bella couldn't. However, since there was nothing to gain by arguing the point, she chose diversion. "I never had a chance to thank you."

Jasper cocked his head, a silent question.

"The invitation. It may have been the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

It was Jasper's turn to go pale.

"Don't." Her voice grew thick, but she continued anyway. "No one else took pity on me."

"But—"

Bella scanned his face. The look of pain and shame could mean only one thing: he knew what she'd seen in the meadow. "Who told you?" Bella covered her mouth and shook her head, not trusting her voice to say any more. Stupidly, she had always believed that moment was a private shame.

Jasper pleaded with his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Bella. It was my fault."

She hung her head and said it quietly, only for his ears: "Edward's cock in Tanya's mouth is not your fault." To her dismay, she flushed from head to toe, a reaction she'd fought hard to master. It was a rare occurrence these days.

"He's always loved you, Bella." Jasper's pretty Texas accent made the words even more bitter.

"Don't you dare." She barely made a sound, so she cleared her throat and said it again. This time too loud. "Don't. You. Dare."

Suddenly Alice was between them, shoving something into Bella's hand. "I meant to give you this yesterday."

A picture frame. Bella turned it over. The photograph was of her and Charlie, both in profile, both laughing with someone not in the shot. Edward. She could see him as vividly as if he'd been caught in the picture. He'd donned the pair of hip waders Charlie bought him for his birthday, and looked as much like a fish out of water as it was possible for a Cullen to do.

Bella touched the glass as if smoothing Charlie's moustache. Charlie: younger, healthy, his eyes crinkled with mirth. The rare smile that showed his teeth. She'd never realized then that her dad was handsome, but she heard it frequently at the funeral. By then he'd looked old beyond his years, laid out in his dress uniform, his police chief's hat tucked under one arm.

A tear hit the glass; she carefully wiped it away. "Thank you, Alice. This is…" she wanted to say thoughtful, but she could no longer speak. Why had Alice kept it?

"I have more if you want them." Alice had edged closer and Bella met her eyes. Really met them, and all of her losses rocked through her. She grew dizzy, clutching the edge of the desk.

Suddenly, Jasper was behind her, holding her coat so she could slide her arms into the sleeves. Then he shouldered her bag. "Where's your car, darlin'?"

Bella couldn't think, didn't understand.

Jasper produced her car keys, which had been in the front pouch of her bag. He had a finger through the key ring and spun them around once, ending in a neat catch. "I'm drivin' you home."

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Edward answered in the middle of the first ring. "Where are you?" he growled. It had been hours.

Alice's ragged sigh crackled through the phone. "In my car."

Fucking Alice. She'd finally called him, but she was still going to be difficult. Edward waited, refusing to ask. But when she spoke again, he wished he'd said something. Anything.

"You're going to tell me what happened between you and Bella at that goddamn graduation party. Right now."

The graduation party. Something hot surged through his vitals. It felt like the beginning of a Dickensian illness—weeks of fever and delirium, and not likely survivable. It gave him a moment of vertigo, spinning and falling and never hitting ground.

It was a spectacle befitting their status in the community. Though Edward's parents were more inclined to subtlety, Eleazar had indulged his girls' every wish: the living room was emptied of the usual furniture and transformed into a chic rave. Between the back patio and the river stood more carnival games than any festival Forks had ever seen. Edward couldn't move without someone clapping a hand on his shoulder and telling him what a great party it was.

The driving music pounded in his head as he pushed his way out of the kitchen and past classmates shooting skeet and playing ring toss. He needed to get to the river. No. He needed to get away from all of it, to the meadow.

After he got good and drunk. Though the party was officially dry, booze, supplied by Eleazar with a wink, flowed freely behind the garage. And Tanya and Kate had enough ecstasy to put half of the Olympic Peninsula into an altered state. They always had too much of everything, purchased with Daddy's money.

Edward managed to snag a bottle of whiskey and escape the garage, though Tanya had sidled up to him to grind against his leg.

"Not now, Tan," Edward murmured into her ear, a false promise of more to come later. She'd been pushing him for months now, teasing him for turning into a monk since coming to Washington. He'd never been shy about casual sex in Alaska, happily coaxing Tanya (and he honestly didn't know how many others) into giving him head and later her virginity when it had suited him.

He wished he could erase it all: the things he'd done and said, but most of all, what he'd seen on her father's computer. His own trust fund and Alice's. His parents' investments. All entrusted to Eleazar, founder and chief investment officer of the renowned Denali Group.

Except there were no investments. Edward snorted. If only he hadn't been sneaking in to transfer funds so he could have the Aston Martin Carlisle and Esme refused to buy him. If only he'd found something comparatively innocuous. Like gambling debts. Or porn.

Edward was almost to the river when a heavy hand settled on his shoulder. Eleazar's arm remained around him as he fell into step. "It's a big day for you, son." It took all of Edward's self control not to cringe away from the closeness. If his plan was going to work, he had to play along and be convincing about it. It was harder than balancing on a tightrope and about as dangerous.

Eleazar took the whiskey from him, twisted it open and raised it in toast. "To the future. Your future." He drank, then offered Edward the bottle. Edward took it, but only sipped. When it came to Eleazar, he couldn't afford the tiniest slip.

Eleazar capped the whiskey, then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. He held it out to Edward. "For you, son. A graduation present." Edward looked at him warily. "Go ahead, open it."

He withdrew a piece of weighty stationery and read the letter head. The London School of Economics. The acceptance letter shook in his hand.

"I've pulled a few strings on your behalf and smoothed things over with your parents. And as my gift to you and my lovely daughter, I'm taking you to Europe for the summer. We'll tour then get you settled. You'll be a regular Londoner before the semester begins."

"Tanya's going?" It was absurd to think she wouldn't, but Edward was entirely blindsided. "What about Dartmouth?"

Eleazar fixed him with a look. "Seems neither of you were as enthusiastic about my alma mater as you appeared to be." He took something else from his jacket pocket: the acceptance letter from the University of Pennsylvania. "I've taken the liberty of declining on your behalf."

Though he and Tanya had both been accepted into Dartmouth because their fathers were alumni, Edward had secretly applied to Penn, and that's where he planned to go. It was the closest Ivy League school to Bryn Mawr, where Bella was going on a full academic scholarship. He'd overheard talk between two teachers, and used his charm on a particularly susceptible guidance counselor to confirm it.

"I suppose you declared my major?" It was a brittle attempt at a joke, but it was the best he could do and remain in control of himself. The months since Bella's birthday had been an endless night without stars. He hardly slept. The only time he _felt_ anything was while sitting in her rocking chair, watching helplessly as she thrashed and screamed through nightmares, always calling his name.

"In fact, I have. A business major will better prepare you to join Denali Group when your degree is complete. Meantime, I've arranged your internship in our London office."

Of course. It wasn't enough to keep Edward silent. Eleazar required Edward to implicate himself. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Edward could admire the strategy even as, with sickening clarity, he understood just how tightly he was now bound.

"Tanya, too?" Would he involve his daughter?

"No. She'll have more than enough to keep her occupied at Cambridge. And the British Museum, when the time for an internship comes." It made sense: Eleazar patronized museums and causes. He would groom Tanya to handle the family's conspicuous contributions. Tied to the business, but never suspecting a thing.

"Understood, sir." There was no escape now. Edward was a prisoner, as surely as if he were shackled. His plan to reunite with Bella was ashes; all he could hope to do now was spare his family if and when Eleazar's scheme collapsed.

Eleazar eyed him meaningfully. "You didn't thank me for your gift, Edward."

Edward swallowed his agony and choked out, "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome." Eleazar handed him the whiskey bottle and returned to the house.

So much was a blur after that. Edward drank, and the alcohol loosened his inhibitions. He became the life of the party, telling the dirtiest jokes, laughing the loudest, grinding on the most girls. What did it matter anymore? If he'd been behind the wheel of the Aston Martin that started his downfall, he would have floored it, closed his eyes and taken his hands off the wheel. Why not? The golden Edward Cullen wouldn't be lucky enough to crash.

Tanya found him on the dance floor and pressed her ass to his groin, reaching back to grasp his hair and pull his mouth to hers. Edward hadn't had physical release since the day in the meadow. He hadn't allowed himself to beat off because any time he closed his eyes and put his hand to his cock, Bella's face and lovely pale body were before him, quickly followed by the sound of her crying out in a nightmare.

But he'd had enough whiskey to make him reckless. He grabbed Tanya's hips, pressed his stiff cock against her ass and kissed her back. He was alone, more alone than he'd ever been; his last hope of reuniting with Bella was gone. So he would at least have this. He turned Tanya around and kissed her roughly, pressing against her and squeezing a breast.

Tanya melted against him. "Oh, Edward," she moaned. He was giving her what she'd wanted all along, but he felt powerful doing it.

When she broke the kiss and pushed away, he grabbed her head and pulled her in. Her eyes alight, she whispered, "Let's get out of here."

He nodded. Yes, away from everything. He wanted to sprint through the woods at lightning speed, never tiring, until he reached the coast. He wanted to dive into the Pacific and never surface.

Tanya led, and he followed blindly until he realized where she was going.

Edward had never taken her to the meadow. She'd asked many times, but he always refused. It was his private place, he'd told her. His place to be alone.

He slowed. He was well and truly buzzed, but as the music from the party receded, his mind began to clear.

Moonlight cut through the trees surrounding the meadow. How could he step out into the light when they reached the edge? He'd been naked here with Bella. He'd bared his heart. The glare of light and shadow disoriented him and he staggered after catching a toe on a tree root. Tanya spun him around. "I forgot the blanket. Go back for it? Please?"

Edward retreated, grateful for the chance to regroup, to figure out a way to lure Tanya somewhere else. Anywhere but the meadow.

He was popping the trunk of the Volvo to get the picnic blanket when Eleazar appeared at his side again. "Did you leave my daughter out there alone?"

"No sir, just getting the blanket. We're going to do some stargazing." The euphemism was embarrassing enough to make Edward flush.

"Make her happy, Edward. She better be smiling when she comes back."

Edward gave him a thin, angry smile. "I'll give her exactly what she wants, sir."

Eleazar nodded, as if to say, _you'd better_, and stalked away.

By the time he returned to the meadow, Edward was angry enough to fuck Tanya against a tree.

Before Edward knew what was happening, Tanya pulled him into the moonlight. Somehow she managed to lead him to the exact spot where he and Bella had made love. The adrenaline that had surged through him began to fade. He couldn't do this.

But Tanya was on him, pulling his face to hers for a hungry kiss.

Edward returned it as best he could—he'd put her off for so long. Pulling back now would be a delicate matter, and his cock wasn't cooperating. He was hard despite being disgusted with himself, Eleazar, Tanya.

Still, he couldn't look at her strawberry blonde hair, her blue eyes so close to his. With a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her away, but Tanya misunderstood. With a groan of desire, she fell to her knees, a hand already at his zipper.

He couldn't stop her—she'd return to the party sobbing if he held back again.

Still, he couldn't watch as his body betrayed him. He closed his eyes and felt. Her mouth was wet and warm, and he could imagine...

Oh god, no. Edward he couldn't fantasize about _her_ with Tanya's mouth around his cock.

His eyes snapped open, frantic to look at anything but what Tanya was doing to him. He scanned the trees on the opposite side of the meadow and saw.

Bella's eyes.

Three sharp snaps rang in his ear. "The graduation party, Edward. What. Did. You. Say?" Was Alice actually snapping her fingers at him?

He heard her shift the Porsche and prayed she had him on hands-free.

Edward swallowed back the disgust that always clung to the memory. "You can't talk to her, Alice. You don't understand."

"I have _already_ spoken with her," she snapped, and he could picture the glint in her grey eyes. "In about five minutes, I'm going to be at her house. She's a wreck, Edward, so start talking or I promise you I'm going to tell her everything."

"Her house?"

"Jasper's driving her home; I'm following."

"Jasper's here?"

She all but growled. Edward pulled the phone from his ear and looked at it as if he'd be able to see Alice's face on the screen, but just as quickly put it back.

"—been here for months. He has an apartment in Seattle—"

Edward drew a breath, but Alice steamrolled over him.

"—and we are NOT talking about this now. Bella, Edward. She thinks it was all a joke. That we played her. What the _fuck_ did you say?"

He'd never said such a thing, though to his everlasting shame, that was exactly how it started. Seventeen-year-old new girl Bella was pretty but oblivious to it, and almost aloof in her shyness. The perfect quarry. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time: seduce the police chief's lovely and innocent daughter. She was a shiny new toy, and when he collected a pair of her panties in record time, he'd be a hero. Not that he gave a shit what his fellow students at Forks High School thought of him, but when awed, they were more easily managed. Back then, Edward took a perverse pleasure in making the puppets dance to his tune.

"The last thing I ever said to her was, 'I love you,'" he whispered. "But I don't think she heard me." He'd said it countless times, but she was always asleep, thrashing and whimpering through another of the endless nightmares. And he sat, paralyzed by guilt, in the rocking chair beside her bed, dying to touch her face or spoon up behind and hold her to his chest. But he didn't deserve that comfort. He'd already violated her trust in every conceivable way before he'd stooped to sneaking into her room, watching her sleep because he didn't dare look at her during the day.

"You know what I mean, Edward. If you're not going to level with me, I'm done. I _will_ make this up to Bella. And if that means throwing you under the bus..."

Edward sighed and picked up the box with the locket, touching the worn velvet to his cheek. But he couldn't feel the soft nap through his layer of stubble. "I have to show you, Ali. She wrote us letters."

The silence was so profound, Edward checked to see if his phone had dropped signal.

"When?"

"She hid them in the rocks by the river during the graduation party."

He hoped she would shriek, curse, smash her phone. Something. A quiet Alice was dangerous. Or hurt. Either way, it was his fault.

"I hate you, Edward." It was quiet, flat, and followed by a click.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Jasper held the car door, closing it after Bella pulled in the hem of her trench. Then he stowed her computer bag in the trunk, dragging his feet while formulating a battle plan.

Bella still looked remarkably young—the curse of the petite woman, as an exasperated Alice had explained to him on countless occasions—but she was hard as marble. It was almost apt, given her pale skin, but not at all flattering.

He was busy adjusting the seat and mirrors when Bella said, "Tell me who knows."

Jasper took his sweet Texas time, fiddling with the keys as if he couldn't find the right one though it was more than obvious. Bella snatched them from him and held it up. "Quit stalling."

Well, fuck. Jasper stuffed the key in the ignition and turned it, avoiding Bella's eyes as he backed out of the parking space. "Just you and Edward, I reckon."

"What's the point of lying to me now, Jasper?" She turned away, facing forward. "I deserve better."

"You always did, darlin'." Jasper pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic, squinting harder than necessary. It helped the guilt sometimes. Where did you begin to salve wounds like Bella's? Someone may as well have whipped her, hard and often. The welts were still wide open; he could practically smell the blood.

Her don't-patronize-me glare roused him from the thought. "He never told anyone, Bella. I've only pieced together a bit from something Tanya said after the party, and finding Edward by the river."

Bella huffed, clearly not believing him. He watched her reflection in the passenger window out the corner of his eye. She surreptitiously ran a finger under her eye, keeping any tears from falling.

After a silence that had Jasper squirming in his seat, Bella said, "Tanya told me what he said. That he was slumming. Maybe you weren't in on the joke, but she was."

Jasper jerked to a halt at the stoplight far harder than necessary. "And you believed her?" She'd fallen for enemy propaganda? If he'd been less shocked, he might not have let fly with his immediate reaction: "Bella, you're far too smart to be that stupid."

Bella leveled a withering glare at him, but Jasper just shook his head. He was sorry to be rude, but he was right, and apparently she needed to hear it. "Do you think Tanya told you anything except what she wanted you to believe? Of course she told you the thing she thought would hurt you most. She was fighting tooth and nail to get Edward."

Bella clenched her teeth and muttered, "She already had him. In her mouth. I saw it with my very own eyes." The last sentence was a terrible imitation of his twang. She'd always had a dry, even irreverent, sense of humor, but now it bordered on bitter.

The worst of it was Jasper knew his part in twisting Bella into her current configuration. The knowledge forced him out on dangerous ice. "She didn't have him, not by a long shot, but she wanted him. And what Daddy's girl wanted, Daddy's girl got."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He squinted harder; it wasn't helping. "It means you don't know anything."

Bella turned in her seat to face him, her back against the door. "Well then, by all means, enlighten me."

Jasper couldn't go down this road: there were too many things only Edward knew. Not even Alice had been able to wring a single detail from him, at least not then. The house of cards had just started to teeter a few months ago. From what he could gather, the fall of the Denali Group had come to a hold-your-breath kind of halt that wasn't calculated to last. It was only a matter of time now, but Jasper didn't know where the mines lay, what strongholds were available. Still, he knew with a strategist's unerring instinct: there would be casualties. Would Edward be one of them?

Before he could craft anything to say that wouldn't offend her further, Bella lit into him. "Let me guess, it's not your story to tell." She used air quotes, her voice dripping with ten years of pent outrage. It rolled over him like whitewater—blinding, suffocating. And truly, it wasn't his story to tell. He didn't know diddly shit, really. Only how it started.

So, first things first. "I meant what I said in there. It was my fault." When Bella tried to protest, he pushed on, not giving her a chance to speak. "Not the cock part, I'll grant you that. But if it wasn't for me, Eleazar might not have moved the family from Alaska in the first place."

"You're going to have to explain that." She sounded neutral, but Jasper felt it: Bella had hope. It was just the bit of intelligence he needed. She hated herself for it, that much was clear, and the hate had hardened something in her. Question was, had it crystallized, become unchangeable? Surely it was close.

It was time to take a gamble and find out. "You disappoint me, darlin'. You let him walk away scot free, and that just ain't right." He nodded to himself as she spluttered, relaxing into his own skin for the first time in hell if he knew how long. "If you want answers, you're going to have to talk to Edward."

As predicted, Bella told him to go fuck himself.

Jasper suppressed a smile as he tapped out a marching cadence against the steering wheel. He had successfully executed the first maneuver of a fledgling battle plan, and it gave him a hook. There would—finally—be a sequel to Southern Vampire Wars. All he needed now was a shitload of luck, a couple computers and a long-overdue talk with Edward.

**A/N:Breaking News: Someone very kind has nominated Release for the Sparkleteers' Rare Gem Awards in two categories: Most Surprising Plot Twist/Diamond in the Rough, and The Flawless Pearl/Up and Comer Award. I'm honored that the story has been nominated, and hope you'll check out all of the nominees. There are some amazing stories out there: Anais Marks' Metaphysics; Morgan Locklear's Bella Voce; Cesca Marie's Dead on My Feet; and so many other wonderful reads. Voting is now open, through December 1. You can vote once per day at:** www(dot)thesparkleteerawards(dot)blogspot(dot)com

**After I post a chapter, I greedily check my e-mail, hoping for reviews. They make my day, and make writing feel like a less lonely project. So could you, would you? Thanks.**

**Apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter was a struggle. But the next one is well underway, so I hope to update much sooner next time.**

**When the traffic on my story spikes, I often wonder if someone has recommended it. To anyone who has been kind enough to send readers here, thank you. If you review or rec, send me a link, would you? I'd love to know, and to be able to thank you here by name.**

**This week's story rec: Summer of Salt by lola-pops. Lola-pops had me at "Fried Chicken and Chainsaws," the title of the first chapter of this college-age, all-human Bella and Edward story. Lola-pops' prose is just like her description of the lake where most of the story takes place: "so clear you can submerge yourself neck deep and still see your toes." Her story mesmerizes just like the summer heat; readers can see the storm coming, and welcome the rain. There's angst here, but Lola's clear-eyed narration keeps away any hint of wallowing. And the characters earn the wonderfully woven end to this story. Lola-pops was recently interviewed and said she's at work on a new fic that will debut soon. I can hardly wait. **

Page 15 of 15


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a garden weasel, a copy of Charles Dickens' **_**A Christmas Carol**_**, a grey quarter-zip sweater from the men's department (because their sweaters always have long enough sleeves), and a copy of my daughter's six-page holiday wish list, which she claims is only that long so she'll be surprised by what she gets. Mmmhmm.**

**My beta, Serendipitous, aka MeilleurCafe, is awesomesauce. With a side of mango sorbet. Thanks for your help with the chapter, bb. Your support for my writing and this story mean more to me than you'll ever know.**

**Thanks to my incredibly perceptive prereader Isabeausink, who asks all the right questions. Kindred spirit doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm on my knees, Mistress. Just for you.**

**Speaking of kink, this chapter contains sex between a Dom and sub in a playroom. All play in this chapter is safe, sane and consensual. Still, restraint, humiliation and threat of exposure come into play. If that's a problem for you, you'll want to stop reading when Jacob's POV begins. **

**Many people in the BDSM lifestyle have contracts between partners; though I haven't outlined it here, understand that Jacob and Bella do, and that what happens in this chapter is well within the boundaries they've agreed on.**

**I'm no BDSM expert, so don't rely on this fiction to teach you how to play safely. If you're interested in the lifestyle, there are many credible sources out there. Seek them out and do your homework.**

**And if you're not old enough to vote, you're not old enough to read this fiction. Begone! Please. So your mom doesn't hate me when she checks your "recents." And you know she will …**

**Chapter 5**

It's best to have an exit strategy after telling someone to fuck himself. But since she couldn't very well kick Jasper out of her car while he was driving it, Bella quietly directed him, limiting talk to street names and upcoming turns. He had a point about Tanya, but he was wrong about letting everyone off scot free. She was surprised that he didn't seem to know.

After the initial shock wore off, she'd been angry. The Monday morning after her eighteenth birthday, she'd slipped a note into Edward's locker, demanding a meeting. At the end of the day, she found a note on the seat of her truck: he'd meet her at her house.

He was leaning against his Volvo when she backed in. Her feet had hardly hit the driveway when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the woods.

They had barely made it to the trail when he turned. "What happened the other day …" He trailed off and touched the locket, his fingers lingering over the skin there. "It made me realize that it's time for a change." Bella covered his hand with hers, trying to get him to meet her eyes; he recoiled, turning away and bracing a hand against a tree trunk. "I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not. I'm not _that guy_, Bella. I'm not _your _guy." The way he spoke, she was sure his eyes were closed, as they always were when he struggled with himself. "I've let this go on way too long, and I'm sorry for that."

"You're lying." She wanted it to be true, but her words lacked conviction, as her wishful thinking always did.

"No." Edward pushed away from the tree and walked toward the house. After a few steps, he halted, but didn't look back. "Alice says goodbye." Bella stood rooted to the ground like the trees all around her, until he disappeared around the side of Charlie's house. It was one of the things Bella appreciated about her Seattle neighborhood: no woods.

Bella pointed out her house and Jasper pulled into the driveway. When she held out her hand for the keys, instead of giving them to her, he took her hand and held it. Unable to move and break the spell, Bella waited for him to say something. But he just rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, soothing. She couldn't remember the last time someone did that. The life she'd built didn't include casual affection.

At last, he released her hand and pressed the keys into it, folding her fingers around them. "We can't stay. Alice has to get back."

Bella nodded, almost disappointed. She'd expected…something. The dread had been building since she'd told Jasper to fuck himself. Alice would insist on coming inside and talking; one of them would bring up Edward; she'd be cornered, unable to escape. She'd already braced for disaster from any angle.

Jasper was out of the car and retrieving her computer bag when Bella snapped to. The boxes from her room in Forks were still in the trunk. She flung off her seatbelt and scrambled out of the car as Jasper came around, her bag over his shoulder and a box—_the_ box—in his hands. Thank heaven she hadn't labeled them.

He gestured toward an Adirondack chair on the porch. "I'll just set it up here?"

She gulped back her relief and nodded. "Thanks."

The yellow Porsche pulled in behind Bella's car. It was so Alice, Bella almost smiled.

Almost.

Except something was off. Alice didn't bound out of the car as expected. She remained in the driver's seat, head against the head rest, makeup streaked down her cheeks. She'd cried hard enough at Charlie's yesterday without ruining her face.

The driver's window whirred down, and Bella approached.

"You wrote me a letter?" Alice's grey eyes were swimming. She looked as if the straw capable of breaking her monumentally sturdy back had finally landed.

It took a moment, but Bella suddenly understood, shaking her head in denial and disbelief. She'd destroyed it. No, she'd hidden it, along with her letter to Edward, where no one would find the humiliating proof of her naive hopes. A place where her shame could disintegrate or fossilize—she hadn't cared which that night.

"Edward said you wrote me a letter." Alice waved a hand toward the passenger seat, where her phone lay. "He just told me."

"Does it matter?" The question was as much to herself as Alice. Did it matter anymore? So what if Alice read it? It couldn't come as a surprise that Bella had once longed for any explanation that would restore their friendship. That she would have forgiven anything, even things she shouldn't, just to be seen and loved again.

"Yes." Alice tilted her chin up, as if she were stargazing out the moon roof. As if the constellations had realigned. Bella watched fresh tears trace a new path toward Alice's ear. "Of course it matters."

Oh god. Edward had read the letters. If it hadn't been before, her shame was now complete. He knew exactly how fully she'd believed the lies. He'd known all along.

As was his way, Jasper reached for the door handle before Bella knew he was there. She stepped back as he opened the door and knelt beside Alice. She wound her arms around his neck and slid into his lap, crying quietly into his neck, while Jasper rocked and shushed her.

Sunrise, change of seasons: some things just _were_, like Alice and Jasper. They looked so right, wrapped up in each other, that the jealous pang never came. They'd always been perfect together and still were. Some people were destined to be lucky that way. Bella had once counted herself among them.

She backed away quietly. It was the perfect moment to disappear, to leave them to their bubble and retreat into her own.

But Jasper rose with Alice in his arms and nodded for Bella to open the passenger door. She did, and he settled Alice onto the seat. Alice squirmed, retrieved her phone, then settled back with her eyes closed for a moment. "Can I call you?" She didn't meet Bella's eyes as she held the phone out the window for her. Perhaps for the first time, it seemed Alice was truly asking rather than presuming.

Everything in her wanted to decline. But Jasper took Alice's phone and handed Bella his instead. He fixed her with a look that said everything: he wouldn't give the number to Alice without good reason.

In spite of herself, Bella trusted Jasper; she took his phone, typed, and handed it back.

He pocketed the phone and walked to the driver's side as Bella followed, suddenly sad to see him go. "It's your day to chauffeur prostrate women, I guess." A watery laugh escaped her, and Jasper grasped her hand.

"Any time, Bella." He leaned in and kissed her temple while Bella stood stunned. Affection had only been a part of her life when Alice and Edward were in it. Charlie wasn't the demonstrative sort, and thanks to a mutual lack of inclination, she hadn't seen her mother in years. And Bella shied away from the touch of friends and colleagues.

But this was Jasper. Bella squeezed his hand in thanks, and he folded himself into the driver's seat. She caught a glimpse of Alice with her hand out the window in a gesture more like reaching than parting as they pulled away.

Bella unlocked the door and carried her bag and the box inside.

Stillness. Her home, with its subtle colors and clean lines, exuded it. Not serenity; not peace. More like the suspended moment that sometimes comes in meditation: aware, but still. Waiting.

But nothing would come. Bella knew that. Since what Alice and Jasper had could never be hers, she'd arranged her life to keep it at bay. To make it seem like she had the choice.

She left her bag under the table in the foyer and continued on with the box, through the living room, past the dining nook and down the hall to her home office. She hit a switch on the wall. It only powered the lights attached to the bookcases. They cast an inviting glow on the books while leaving the center of the room in shadow. Bella placed the box in the room's small closet and closed the door, leaning back on it as she scanned the shelves.

The books were grouped by subject, the subjects placed in the order in which they had distracted her from the defining _it_ of her existence. But self-help, therapy, God, yoga and even the books that occupied all of her years of schooling had failed that.

Bella pulled her phone from her pocket and scrolled through the contacts. She'd discovered only one thing that provided relief, temporary but quite complete for as long as it lasted.

Jacob wasn't her first Dom; she never stayed more than a year with any of them, usually less. Her needs were, after all, singular.

But she'd been with Jacob for more than a year already, and he wanted a longer-term contract. He hadn't said anything directly yet, but the weekday phone calls, the times he'd asked her to meet him for coffee or dinner all made it clear he was interested in her outside of the playroom. And he was wonderful: creative, smart, funny, warm. So warm. But anything more was impossible: the playroom was all she had to offer.

That's where she needed him. In his ropes and canes, in the concentration required to submit, she was, for long moments, free. No one had ever taken her so far, for so long.

Bella could afford to trust herself in Jacob's playroom: her mistakes were immediately apparent and swiftly punished. She never had to think about them again. And concentration, attention, was always rewarded.

She could test herself there: resist her desires, conquer her need. No risk. No fear. Just suspended moments of quiet mind.

It was her own personal brand of heroin, but it was a fragile space, easily disturbed and always too short.

Still, it was only her body at Jacob's mercy, not her heart.

Bella inhaled deeply, pulling in air longer than felt comfortable, expanding her lungs for the exquisite relief of the long, slow exhale. They were gone, and she was here. Scrolling through her contacts, she paused. Apparently, Jasper had discovered her phone in her bag and entered his and Alice's contact information.

Another deep breath, another slow exhale. The vestiges of her yoga and meditation training served her well as a sub. She arrowed down to Jacob's number, knelt on the floor and pressed send.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

It was nearly 10 p.m. when Jasper turned into the wooded road just outside of Forks. He'd never endured such a quiet drive with Alice. After briefly recounting her conversation with Edward, she lapsed into a silence so profound, Jasper wondered if she'd ever resurface. Eventually she fell asleep. Not her usual catnap followed by a burst of energy that should only be possible after ingesting a fairly large dose of amphetamines. She didn't even wake when he stopped in Port Angeles to pick up food for a late supper.

But she blinked to life as the tires left pavement, looking, if possible, more exhausted than before. When her hand immediately moved toward his, Jasper's heart speeded. From the moment they met, her first instinct seemed always to be to move _toward_ him. She'd touch his arm, or melt into his chest or meet his eyes in a moment of silent understanding. It was one of the few things he'd ever been proud of. But Alice seemed to catch herself, and let her hand fall limp in her lap.

Worse, she didn't say a word, just stared out at the trees.

Alice and defeat were contradictory concepts—she typically exuded victory. Still, with her face shadowed and her shoulders sagging, she looked like she'd given up. On what, Jasper couldn't tell, though by rights, it should be him.

He didn't deserve her—he'd known that from day one, too—but losing Alice was unfathomable. He wouldn't survive it. Perhaps he could, but he wouldn't. Even on the bad days, when he doubted everything and thought she'd be better off without him, he didn't want a life without her.

Only hours before, he'd been on the brink of throwing it away. But if he thought about that too much right now, he'd paralyze himself. He'd face it soon enough: he and Alice had to talk. But first, Edward.

He shut off the engine and turned in his seat, stroking Alice's cheek with the backs of his fingers. She didn't respond, didn't take her eyes off the white facade looming before them. Cullen House was beautiful most times, but tonight, it seemed haunted, menacing.

"He's playing." Her murmur was so quiet in the sealed jar of the Porsche, it seemed to disappear into a vacuum. Jasper opened his door and listened; she was right. Music, halting and strained, ghosted through the air, followed by a cacophony, as if fists had crashed down on the keys.

After a moment of utter stillness—no breath, no wind—the music began again. Smoother this time, and infinitely sad. It washed over Jasper like Acheron itself, a melancholy like to take him under if he let it.

He wouldn't. His days of indulging his regrets and inadequacies were over. It was time to stand and fight. Jasper stepped out of the car and straightened the legs of his jeans then cracked his neck and knuckles. Though he had no immediate plan to break a chair over the back of Edward's head, it wasn't an entirely unappealing thought. Whatever it took.

He leaned down into the car, said, "Stay here, darlin'," and waited for the argument. Alice always argued. But she just closed her eyes and nodded.

He shut the car door with a quiet click and crossed the lawn. Drawn by the music, he silently climbed the stairs, crossed the porch and slipped in through the screen door.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Alice waited until Jasper was inside, then exited the car, hell bent for the river. She needed to throw something—perhaps a large rock. Isn't that what men did when they were supremely pissed off?

But as soon as she stepped off the gravel driveway onto the path, the heels of her boots began to sink. Which just wouldn't do. It was quite possibly the longest, worst day of her life. She sure as hell wasn't going to end it with mud on her Ungaros.

She ran on tiptoes across the shortest stretch of lawn, which brought her to the sidewalk beside the garage. She opened the service door, stepped inside and turned on the light.

Edward's Aston Martin was parked in the farthest stall, covered like the swaddled baby it had always been. Why he coddled it so was beyond her—he almost never drove it. And when he did, it seemed to put him in a worse mood rather than a better one.

Not that Edward was ever in a good mood. He'd been pissy for a decade now, and while she was sorrier than she could say that he hadn't taken her advice and begged Bella to take him back, she was less sorry for him than she'd been since it all began.

A letter. Bella had written her a letter. He'd read it and kept it away from her.

After all she'd done, all she'd sacrificed at Edward's behest, this was the icing on a tall, Martha Stewart-designed, ganache-frosted cake. Alice's fucking cake. And Edward was going to pay.

Alice glanced around the garage until she spotted the perfect weapon. She rabbed the caddy of gardening tools from the potting bench and pulled back the Aston Martin's cover.

Then she and the Garden WeaselTM left their mark on every body panel.

She wasn't finished.

Still lugging the gardening implements, Alice slipped into the house through the back door, stopping long enough to remove her boots so she could walk soundlessly.

Their voices, angry and raised, came from the living room.

Alice glided to the entry, selected her weapon and took aim.

The dandelion digger whizzed through the air like something from a Kung Fu movie, momentarily embedding itself in the upraised lid of Edward's baby grand before clattering to the floor.

The two men she loved—and hated—most in this world jumped back as the projectile passed between them.

Before either could say a word, Alice emptied her arsenal with as much force as she had. The men in question ducked two short-handled trowels, a tool for planting bulbs and, finally, the Garden Weasel, which made an ungodly clang against the far wall before falling on a crystal vase, which shattered when it hit the floor.

Then the room resounded in silence.

Alice shrieked "Shut up!" anyway, and pointed at Jasper. "You. Get my things from the car. You can sleep in the guest room."

Then she rounded on Edward. "And you. I want those letters now."

"Al—" Edward appeared to want to reason with her. As if.

She brandished a paperweight from the coffee table. "Now."

Edward held his hands up in surrender then slowly, carefully removed them from the piano bench. He held them out to her.

"Just set them there." Alice nodded at the bench. "And get the hell away from me."

Jasper had returned by this time, and stood warily near the front door. Edward took a tentative side step in Jasper's direction.

Alice darted forward and grabbed the letters, still brandishing the paperweight so they didn't try anything stupid. Like talking. "We'll discuss this in the morning." She stood to her full if minimal height. "I don't want to hear a peep out of either of you until then."

Then she stalked up the stairs intent on a long, hot bath.

It wasn't until she settled into the whirlpool in the master suite that it dawned on her: she sounded like somebody's mother.

Alice paused over that thought, then closed her eyes and sank deeper into the foamy water. She couldn't think about that—or the letters—until she'd had some sleep.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Replete.

Saturday nights were supposed to be replete. That was how Jacob orchestrated his weekends with Isabella: vigorous but not strenuous play Friday nights; more intense play Saturday mornings with rest and diversions outside the playroom, sometimes even outside of the house, in the afternoon. The most intense play of the weekend followed a slow, multi-course dinner. He arranged these scenes to leave them both exhausted and satisfied. He should be sound asleep with Isabella at the foot of his bed.

But once again, instead of basking in the afterglow of an intense and satisfying scene, here he stood in his carving studio, passing a tack cloth in smooth strokes over a completed carving, preparing to hand finish it with beeswax. It was a new and unwelcome routine.

Jacob looked up from the arches and hollows of the piece and caught his own dark reflection off of the window that faced the woods at the back of his property. His skin, rich russet due to his First Nation heritage, contrasted with the pale wood beneath his hand. His black hair, whether he wore it pulled back or loose, flowing down to his elbows, gleamed. Without a shirt, he looked like a carving himself, every muscle beautifully defined. And if he were to smile, his teeth would shine white, his dark eyes sparkle.

But he wasn't smiling. Jacob loved carving, loved everything from hiking through the forest choosing the wood to hand rubbing the final coat of oil, and he made a generous living off of his work. Running a bare hand along the smoothly sanded curves of the carving, Jacob sighed, consciously trying to relax his shoulders and neck. It didn't work.

Tonight, for the first time ever, his own handiwork sickened him. Not his carving or studio: his playroom.

It should have been beautiful: Isabella's pale skin contrasted with an intricate weave of slender black rope. Diamond-shaped openings, delicate knots placed to tease her, her back arched over a piece he'd prepared specifically for this scene. It was smooth, mirroring and supporting the contour of her back, and stained russet, the halfway point between the inky silk rope and her skin. The wood's finish matched the light sheen of sweat as she held her position, her hair, which he released from its plait after positioning her, nearly touching the backs of her knees. In profile she was, as he had planned, a study in arcs and curves. The photographs were stunning.

From the front she was something entirely different. Her legs bound hip-width apart, her belly stretched, breasts pushed up. Because of the position, he couldn't see her face or outstretched neck from this angle. He could, however, see the knot he'd placed over her clit, and on each side of the bare lips below it.

Every part of his work with her tonight was intended to excite, to push her to the extreme edge. He'd told her she wasn't allowed to climax until he gave permission, knowing he wanted her to fail this time. He craved her failure; more than that, he wanted it to mean something.

Jacob paused, considering the carving. He'd named the piece Isabella, planning to display it in his bedroom, a tribute to her, his muse.

He'd once wondered if she would ask about the sculpture once he placed it in his bedroom, but knew she was far too disciplined for that. She had remarkable control, unshakable concentration. Still, he imagined a day when she was finally and fully his, and he would explain it to her as he held her in his bed, in his arms. By then, he hoped to understand what it meant himself.

Jacob dipped a fresh cloth in a tin of beeswax and began rubbing. Customers and critics appreciated his hand finishes. They revealed grain and spalting, highlighting all of the contrast in the wood. He applied it to the Isabella carving, stroke by stroke, as carefully as he always tended to her body.

Tonight, he'd flogged her breasts—lightly, to tease her. He used her favorite clamps. He adjusted the ropes, the tiny changes in position creating a friction that had previous subs whimpering and begging for release.

All the while he talked to her, reminding her that she was helpless, that anyone could see or touch if he allowed it. His play room had a window that mirrored the floor-to-ceiling one here in the studio. The rooms were on opposite corners of the house, the studio on the east, the playroom on the west. The large windows both faced south, toward the woods that bordered the back of his property. Normally, the blinds in the playroom were closed during play, but not tonight. He'd wanted to see her reflection, silvery as a tintype. And to make her more vulnerable.

Though no one walked his woods, which extended back more than ten acres, he knew the possibility tantalized her. He could take her when he wished, whether someone was watching or not.

Jacob drew a ragged breath and walked away from the carving, turning his gaze to the studio window. The trees beyond were overlaid by his reflection; once again, everything looked silver against the dark glass. Ghostly.

The rise and fall of her chest became erratic as he'd whispered suggestions of exposure in one ear—fairly standard fare when scening with a sub who craved exposure or humiliation—before moving again so he could hover at her other ear, his breath tickling and his words exciting her. Then he broke from his usual script—he didn't know why—to ask her, "What if the first boy who ever touched you saw you like this?"

It wasn't a gasp—Isabella was far too self-contained for anything like that. But her breath in, and the way she stilled, told Jacob she had climaxed at those words.

That was the thought that broke her astonishing control.

Jacob should have punished her. Not only had she come without permission, she didn't confess it. But he was too stunned. He pretended he hadn't seen, and proceeded to release Isabella from her position.

He removed the clamps one by one, soothing each nipple with his mouth, running his hands up her arms to ease them after the prolonged immobility. He directed her to the bed centered in the room and she obediently lay on her stomach, allowing him to position her arms at her sides and spread her legs.

She was so wet. But that wetness in response to the thought of someone else sickened him. He took a cane from his rack and lay it gently on her backside so the first blow wouldn't startle. This wasn't punishment. More than ever, he wanted it to feel good. He wanted to erase everything from her mind. Everything but what he could do for her.

"Silence, Isabella," he reminded her. And he flicked her with the cane.

Though the diamond-shaped pattern of rope covered her torso, he'd left her bottom and legs bare. Flick after flick, just enough to sting before melting to warmth and heightened sensitivity. He continued until she was fighting the desire to squirm, to lift her ass.

"Very good." He held the handle of the cane to her lips and she obediently kissed it. "Now, on your knees."

Jacob slid an arm under her hips to help her rise, pulling her back to the edge of the bed. If it wouldn't have taken too much time, he would have undone the rope corset then, for the pleasure of running his hands along her bare back. But Jacob knew women's bodies, revered them. It would be nearly impossible for her to hold off orgasm now that she'd had one: the cascade had already begun. She was, for once, poised beyond the edge of control. There was no time to waste.

He quickly stripped away his pants and positioned himself at her entrance. "Remember, no orgasm until I give permission." He pushed into her then, one smooth stroke, and her muscles tightened around him almost painfully. Setting a rhythm calculated to work her until her body evaded her brain, Jacob bit his cheek, staving off his own release, demanding hers. He wanted to shatter her with pleasure.

She was close, so close, when he couldn't hold back any longer. He groaned and shook as he emptied himself into her.

His disappointment transformed to horror when, as he withdrew, a look of complete satisfaction passed over her flushed face. Satisfaction at remaining unsatisfied. The truth hit him like a blow to the kidneys: Isabella was broken.

It took him a moment to offer up the requisite praise. She had, after all, accomplished the impossible task he'd set before her. "You did well, Isabella." He stroked her hair while she lay beneath him, awaiting permission to rise. "You please me." The words stuck in his throat.

He kept her there while he rubbed arnica cream on her backside, and stayed behind her when he had her stand while he slowly, carefully untied the karada corset. He didn't want her to see his damp eyes.

After he dismissed her from the playroom he realized: he hadn't "rewarded" her with release, and she seemed more pleased than if he had.

Jacob stilled; he'd rubbed beeswax into every curve. The carving now had a subtle glow that would grow richer when he buffed it then applied the oil finish. It would be beautiful. Like her. He dropped the rag to the floor, turned off the lights and locked the studio door behind him.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Isabella's strangled sob woke Jacob from a restless sleep and he was on his feet, reaching for her before he fully understood what was happening. He paused to click on the bedside lamp and knelt to the floor beside her just as she cried out again. How could she make that much noise without waking herself?

And what should he do? His immediate instinct—and his heart's desire—was to pull her into his arms and rock her like a child. She looked small, curled in on herself, fists clenching the leash that attached her collar to the post at the foot of his bed as if it were a lifeline. In all the times he'd had her in the playroom, tied, gagged and helpless, he'd never seen her so vulnerable.

He reached out and brushed her hair out of the tears on her cheeks, smoothing it back and shushing her. Even though she was flushed with stress, her bare shoulder felt cool. God, how he wanted to pull her in and warm her. As she began to settle, he eased himself down to spoon behind her, something he realized would make her stiffen with alarm if she were awake. But she slept on, breathing in a ragged sigh, breathing out one word. "Edward."

She was dreaming of him, he was sure of it. The man who had hurt her badly enough that she now craved punishment and humiliation. Not for pleasure, but to suffer. Jacob had always sensed that Isabella's desire to sub wasn't about the sex, and it wasn't good for her.

While he certainly enjoyed the power and control he exercised over his subs, and of course the fucking, at bottom, he wanted the best for them. Leah. Kim. Emily. With each woman, he had tailored scenes to draw out her best qualities: beauty, aptitude, intelligence, warmth, even humor. He derived at least as much pleasure from challenging them, forcing them to reach farther than they believed they could, as he did from the sex.

And he had never, until tonight, set up a scene hoping his sub would fail.

He should have put an end to this months ago; as a Dom, it was his responsibility. Each of his previous long-term D/s relationships had ended amicably and by mutual consent. All three were still in touch, sending friendly updates on their careers, loves, families. In short, exactly as he hoped. Of course, he'd never fallen for any of them either.

He couldn't end things with Isabella. The thought of another man laying a hand on her, or a whip, sickened him. And he knew with dreadful certainty that if he didn't meet her need for punishment, she'd find someone else who would.

Besides, she was like his sun—he couldn't be without her even if it wasn't good for her.

Somehow, he had to win her, body and soul. If he was patient and careful, he could steer her to safer ground. She could grow to love him for more than his playroom.

When she had settled enough that he was sure she wouldn't wake, Jacob slipped the leash from her slack fingers and unclipped it from her collar. Then he gathered her in his arms and lifted her into his bed. She stirred, and he quickly untangled the leash from the bedpost and put it back in her hand. She clasped it. Then, for the first time ever, she sank into him as he curled in behind her. Again, she sighed, "Edward," and one tear trickled across the bridge of her nose before hitting the pillow.

Jacob pressed a kiss into her hair. He hated the bastard, whoever he was.

. . . . .

**Exciting news:** Release was nominated for the Sparkleteers' Rare Gem Awards in two categories: Most Surprising Plot Twist/Diamond in the Rough; and The Flawless Pearl/Up and Comer Award. Voting is open through December 1. Please look at all the amazing stories out there and cast your votes at: http:/thesparkleteerawards (dot) blogspot (dot) com

**My amazing beta Serendipitous, aka MeilleurCafe, just completed her first full-length fiction, **_**Love Is Always an Option**_**. * standing ovation* Check it out! Also, she's got some great stuff in the works. Put her on Author Alert so you don't miss anything.**

Story Rec: I'm captivated by _On Grey Mornings_ by littlesecret84. Bella's "little secret" brought down a president, and she's back in Forks in disgrace. Edward is a school teacher who had a one-night stand with Bella before she became a punch-line in late-night comedy monologs. But it was more than a one-nighter to both of them. So can they reconnect? Can they move forward? littlsecret84, with her remarkably clear-eyed and unsparing Bella narrating, makes me ache to know. I look forward to every chapter. This story is also nominated at the Sparkleteers' Awards. Please check out the story and cast a vote.

Three more stories for your consideration: Morgan Locklear's _Bella Voce_, Anais Marks' _Metaphysics_ and MG2112's _The Singer and The Sorrow_. These stories and authors are nominated for numerous awards, with the Sparkleteers and elsewhere. Read them, then see their A/N or author pages for info on where to go so you can give them the recognition they deserve.

Page 14 of 14


	6. Chapter 6

**My A/N is full of exciting news. I've decided to place it after the chapter from now on. And no, that's not part of the exciting news.  
**

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own gray fleece gloves for shoveling, gray stretch fleece gloves for working out, gray leather gloves for driving, and the plot of this story.**

**Chapter 6**

Eleazar snapped shut his briefcase, the one that never left his side, and turned to the window. The view from his office was nonpareil, the best that money could buy. Streetlights and LCD signs gleamed all over Manhattan; no stars could outshine them. But somewhere, in a darker corner of the world, a waning moon rose.

Every day brought the inevitable closer, but Eleazar was prepared. And detached. The passions that ignited his ambitions were long ago consumed. Now he lived only to serve the leviathan he had created, until the day it consumed him, too. He turned from the window and placed both hands flat on his desk, as if expecting to feel it breathe.

Tanya knocked and entered at the same time. Though he could no longer feel anything, he remembered what he had once felt for his exquisite daughter-so much like his beloved Irina. Pride, protectiveness. Even love.

She crossed the carpet in her chic navy cocktail dress, her long legs accentuated by high, slender heels, and placed a file on his blotter. "You're here late, Daddy." She skirted the sleek, expansive desk to bend gracefully and kiss his cheek. She pressed a hand to the other. "You look tired." There it was, that disapproving pout. So like her mother.

Eleazar took her hand from his face and smiled his most enigmatic smile. How little she knew. "No rest for the wicked, my girl. No rest." He squeezed her fingers. For once, they weren't cold. "What brings you by the office so late?" Eleazar didn't care about Tanya's answer. Not really. He merely wanted a moment to study her, to remember happiness.

She looked radiant. Much as Irina would have looked had Eleazar been willing to give her her heart's fondest wish. It had been in his power, but he denied her, unwilling to hurt Carmen. Unwilling to give up anything he loved. And he had loved them both. Carmen, his sanctuary, solid as earth; Irina, his oxygen. How he had burned.

Her suicide changed everything.

"The MoMA fundraiser was just a few blocks away. I wanted to drop this by before I went home. Dimitri is waiting in the car." She tapped the file with a manicured fingernail.

A spectacular diamond glittered on Tanya's left ring finger. How she was able to surprise him, of all people, with a covert affair and sudden elopement was a mystery. He'd carried on his affair for four years, and managed to adopt the children of his mistress without Carmen ever finding out about the Irina and the girls' origins. The shock of being caught unaware was the first harbinger that his gifts were on the wane. Now the signs were all around him. He wondered how long he'd failed to notice.

Tanya was looking at him, puzzled, and he realized she had said something more while he was lost in thought. "I'm sorry, my dear. I was busy admiring you."

She beamed. Not so much a smile as a glow of something which he'd never witnessed in her. Not even when he'd manipulated the world to give her—and Kate and Carmen—her every desire. He saw it now: the power to make her truly happy had always been outside his reach. Because what finally brought out her radiance was beyond his comprehension: the son of his only true business rival.

"Are you happy, Angel?" It was the only thing that mattered. When he lost the power to make Irina happy, he had vowed to do anything to secure Carmen, Tanya and Kate's happiness. And he had. He regretted nothing. Not what he'd done, not even who he'd hurt. Not after Irina.

Tanya glanced at her ring and nodded. Yes, the ring. Her marriage, which foretold of his end, also secured the only futures that mattered. To the extent that it existed, his own fortune would soon be forfeit. But Tanya now had the resources to take care of Carmen and Kate.

"So what did I miss tonight?"

Tanya smirked. "Just the check."

Eleazar schooled his expression. "Of course. How careless of me." Calculated, actually. New investors were harder to come by as the economy teetered; old investors were withdrawing funds at an alarming rate.

But he would write the check now, and perform the magic once more. Though his power was on the wane, it was far from gone. He would use it until the last.

And the noose would never touch his neck. Eleazar nudged the briefcase under his desk as he withdrew the Denali Group checkbook from his pencil drawer. He had a plan, and the items necessary to execute it never left his side. "Refresh my memory, Angel. How much?"

For the first time all evening, Tanya really looked at the only father she'd ever known—her biological father had disappeared before her mother ever knew she was carrying twins. Daddy never forgot a number. Never. "Six." The _million_ wasn't necessary. Denali Group philanthropy was always counted in millions.

Love agreed with Tanya. It made her generous. At the gala, she'd committed an extra Denali Group million to the fund earmarked for a particular acquisition, and made a personal contribution as well.

It also threw her past into bold relief. She now saw how she'd made her own unhappiness: clinging to an indifferent man, all but begging him to finally love her. She'd never tried so hard or failed so completely.

As a rule, Tanya didn't have to work hard to succeed. She had the gifts of ease and privilege, and exploited those gifts to their farthest limits. It had all but crushed her that Edward remained forever beyond her extensive reach. Tanya turned her wedding ring absently around her finger. At times, she'd believed herself tantalizingly close to winning Edward's heart, but the closest she'd ever come was his bed.

But now she knew love. Mutual, life-altering love with Dimitri, and she would never look back.

"Have you forgiven me yet?" Tanya asked it playfully, but her father's strange and growing distance scared her. It was the one blot on her happiness.

Eleazar signed the check, almost exactly matching his usual flourish, but Tanya saw the difference. He was hiding something: was he sick? Surely she would know if it was that. She'd always been the closest to him. His darling. Just recently, she'd wondered if Carmen was ever jealous.

As much as Tanya loved Carmen, she never _knew_ her. After eight-year-old Tanya and Kate were adopted, Carmen was always kind. She exuded warmth, but there was no simpatico. Admiration, but not the ownership Tanya remembered feeling with her mother Irina: that sense of belonging_ to_, of being claimed. _Mine._

When he held out the check, Tanya clutched his hand, her eyebrows pulled together. Something wasn't right. "Have you?"

Her father kissed her hand then covered it with his own. "Happiness is not a transgression, Angel. There's nothing to forgive."

His eyes were on hers, steady and seemingly honest, but Tanya remained unconvinced.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Edward woke late, but he woke, a remarkable fact in itself. He checked the clock: it was after ten. He'd slept for five dreamless hours, and the world looked marginally brighter. His body ached from last night's shoving match with Jasper, but he felt lighter, too.

Alice was awake; he'd heard her spoon clinking in her coffee cup when he opened his bedroom door. Edward quietly closed it again. If she wanted to talk with him, he'd already know it. After last night, he was pretty sure he'd have a Garden Weasel lodged in his skull if she wanted his attention. By the time he had showered and dressed for the day, Alice was back in her old bedroom. Apparently, Jasper was there, too.

It was just as well. There would be time to talk later, if Alice ever deigned to talk to him again. He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. Besides, from what he'd gathered last night, Alice and Jasper had some things of their own to work out.

Edward opened the cupboard beside the back door and eyed the key rack. Normally, today's errand would call for a ride in the Aston Martin. But parking the Aston in the lot of Jenks' downtown office was asking to have it stripped and standing on cement blocks when he emerged, which would defeat its purpose. So he would drive the Volvo. Still, he needed the boxes stashed in the Aston Martin's trunk, so he took both sets of keys to the garage, where he flicked on the light and stood in slack-jawed amazement.

Before the guffawing began.

Edward laughed himself weak, running his hands over every crease.

He hated that fucking car. When he could finally afford one, he'd bought it with the grim resolve usually reserved for planning one's own funeral right down to selecting the urn. He'd deserved it: wasn't that the original argument? The rationale that trumped his parents' resounding "no," and the voice in the back of his head telling him that hacking into Eleazar's computer to manipulate his own trust fund was beyond the pale, even for Edward.

He'd been paying for that decision ever since. Worse, so had Bella.

Guys sometimes named their cars, and Edward had named the Aston Martin, though he never admitted it. No one would have understood calling such a car Hair Shirt.

In its mangled state, the car was as ugly as he deserved it to be. For some inexplicable reason, this cracked Edward up. Even after the second fit of laughter faded, he couldn't suppress a grin. Yeah, he'd take it for a drive today after all. And for the first time ever, he'd enjoy it.

He threw the Volvo keys into its glove box and climbed into Hair Shirt. Now he didn't have to move the boxes twice. He'd unload them at Jenks' office; Jenks would handle the rest.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Alice dragged a step ladder into the walk-in closet of her old bedroom so she could reach the only non-designer item on the shelf. It was a treasure box she'd made in middle school, before her sense of fashion overran her sense of beauty. It wasn't glittery or an embarrassing pink, but it was sentimental, covered in found objects. Mostly shells, pebbles and sea glass, and therefore heavy even when empty. But it wasn't empty, and Alice needed these things around her in order to read the letters.

By the time she had surrounded herself with the photographs and notes and a hospital bracelet from one of Bella's trips to the emergency room, she looked ready to perform a latter-day séance.

She sat cross-legged on the closet floor, touching and straightening each talisman. Then she closed her eyes, selected a letter and unfolded it.

_Dear Edward,_

_Happy Graduation._

_You're having a party tonight. Jasper invited me, did you know about that? When I found the invitation I was so happy, because I thought it was from you. Or Alice._

_I don't know what I did wrong, but whatever it is, I'd change it if I could._

_Tanya is so pretty. I can see why you like her so much. But I [crossed out]._

_It was real, Edward. I swear, it was. Didn't you feel it, too? It was the best thing that ever happened to me._

_Behind Charlie's house, you said you weren't "My Edward." But you were, I felt it. That was you in the meadow. Right?_

_Don't you miss _us_, Edward? I was mad at you at first, but now [crossed out]. _

_I wear the locket to bed every night and hope that come morning, it was all a nightmare. _

_Wake me up, Edward._

_Always, Your Bella_

Alice was too stricken for tears. She set the letter aside and steeled herself for the next.

_Dear Alice,_

_I told you this a lot when we were friends, but you really are my best friend. I never had a bestie before. In Phoenix, I was always on the outside. I would have been here, too, but you changed that. I know I complained sometimes, and sometimes I'm afraid that's what drove you away._

_You know I loved it, right? All the things you made me do and try and wear. Except maybe the spike heels. Ankle sprain = sad Bella. But everything else, honestly._

_So I'm sorry if I complained too much, or if I was just too boring. Your friends from Alaska are cool and pretty like you, so maybe you just don't need me around, but I miss you._

_I'm dreading the long summer with only shifts at Newton's to break the monotony of life with Charlie. Remember how we used to joke about that? Life With Charlie. Like it was a TV show._

_I'm going to Bryn Mawr in the fall, just like you said. How did you know? You always seem to. You've only been wrong once._

_But I won't bring that up, I swear. He's your brother, and I won't ask you to say anything about him. Even though I want to, so much. But you already know that too, I suppose._

_Happy graduation, Bestie. We did it!_

_Your friend,_

_Bella_

When Jasper opened the closet door, Alice called out "Stop!" She held a protective hand above the pictures and trinkets, as if he might step on them.

He sank to the floor just inside the door and crossed his legs. Without a word, he examined the documentary evidence of a friendship, knowing Alice watched every flick of his eyes, every expression that passed over his countenance.

At last, he reached for one, cradling it in his palm like a butterfly, and tilting it so Alice couldn't see which it was. As he hoped, curiosity got the better of her and she leaned toward him, rising onto her knees to catch a glimpse. In different circumstances, he would have taken a moment to appreciate the view he had down her shirt.

Jasper pressed the photo to his chest, meeting her eyes as he did it. He wanted her to see that he wasn't playing games. Well, mostly he wasn't. With his other hand he reached to her, brushing her cheek with a fingertip. A ghost of a smile touched his lips when she stilled. "Wanna hear about the new game?"

She nearly fell forward into his lap. "You started?"

Jasper nodded, stashing the photo behind him when she continued to reach. He shook his head at the first inkling of her pout. Damn it, she was perfect. "Patience, darlin'," he chided, and she narrowed her eyes. Perfect.

"You've kept me waiting a long time," she warned.

Jasper nodded acknowledgment, suppressing laughter as he marveled at his wife. Slowly, his smile faded to contrition. "I have, and I'm sorry for it." And for so much more.

He shifted, leaning back against the closet wall, knees up, arms resting on them with his hands hanging loose.

Alice craned around him, again looking for the photo behind him.

"Let me tell you about it first?" he cocked his head, awaiting her answer.

Alice hesitated, then nodded. "More vampires?"

Jasper grinned. "They're on Wall Street now." He raised an eyebrow.

She gasped, then whispered, "Did he tell you something?"

"Something," Jasper agreed. "It's a start."

"But you were yelling at him last night." Alice looked wary. Like she didn't trust him. Of course she didn't. It stung, but he couldn't blame her.

"Drill sergeants do too, darlin'. Do you know why?"

Alice huffed. Her smile had faded. Shit—he'd strayed into Civil War territory.

"Because scarin' the everlovin' shit out of a body works." And it had worked; Edward had seemed alive, if livid, for the first time in years.

But Alice sat back, unamused.

Jasper sighed. This wasn't the time to explain any of that. "Eleazar's cookin' the books."

Both hands flew up to cover her mouth as she searched his eyes. Apparently, she believed him. She dropped her hands and whispered, awestruck, "He told you that?"

"Nah, Edward's smarter than that. But he didn't deny it, either." He beckoned to her, hoping to settle her in front of him, to wrap his arms around her and show her the picture. Usually, she was there in an instant; this time, she stilled. She could have been carved from marble. "He's been walking a fine line for years now."

"Eleazar?"

"Edward."

Alice's eyes widened until they seemed to encompass her whole face.

"He didn't tell me anything, Alice," Jasper cautioned. But he had never been more sure. Guilt and relief had rolled off of Edward as they'd shouted at each other, as Jasper accused and Edward roared and swung. They'd taken the fight outside after Alice left them, cussing and shoving all the way to the riverbank. When they at last returned to the house more than an hour later, they both were soaking wet, caked with mud, and shaking with cold and relief. Because they were now allied. "But I think that's what Eleazar's been using against him all these years. Somehow, Edward knew."

"Oh god." Alice's voice shook, and she at last picked her way around the photos and settled in front of him.

Jasper pressed a kiss into her hair, hugging her to his chest and swallowing down the ache in his throat. "He's going to be all right, darlin'. I'll see to it." Exactly how he would see to it was an open question, which she thankfully didn't ask.

She sank against him, but it didn't feel like relief. Defeat seemed to seep out of the seams of her surprisingly unstylish clothes. Jasper touched her hair; no hairspray. She felt smaller in his arms suddenly; forlorn. "Why, Jasper?"

There it was. The real question, and it had nothing to do with Edward. Why an ocean and a continent. Why the marijuana. Why Maria. "I'm not like you, Alice. I get so scared sometimes," he murmured it into her hair.

A terrible sound escaped her. "You think I don't get scared?" Her voice was strangled, outraged, as she struggled to break free of his embrace. He badly wanted to hold her—it usually calmed her. But it wouldn't this time, he could feel it. So he released her and was suddenly more afraid than he'd ever been. No one and nothing had more power over him than Alice.

She scrambled to the opposite end of a closet larger than many bedrooms, neatly dodging every relic despite her obvious misery. "What about when _I'm_ scared?" He saw it now: she wasn't wearing any makeup, her bare face young and vulnerable, yet jaded and weary. "What about when I would do anything to feel like I feel when things are good with us, when I'm so—gah! So lonely in our bed in London and wondering why you haven't called in _months_, Jasper. Months since I heard your voice!" Gasping, but no tears. "I tell you I want us to have a baby and you goddamn _disappear_. You think I wasn't scared? You think I didn't wonder if I'd just chased you away forever? Chased you back to _her_." She sounded as sick as Jasper felt.

He couldn't apologize. He was deeply, unbelievably sorry, but she didn't need to hear it again. He had to make her understand; he needed to understand himself. "It is everything I ever wanted, and I don't deserve it." Alice had already given him her body in every way imaginable, and several unimaginable ones, too. But her willingness to let down that last defense, to bear him a child? Unfathomable. Marriage was "forever" in the Hallmark card sense; having a child together would make their connection irrevocable. If he fucked up now, they could go their separate ways. If they had a child, she was to some extent stuck with him for life, and he'd never be able to escape his biggest failure: hurting Alice. He needed to earn that permanence, and feared he never could. At least, that's how it had looked to him at the time.

"So you went back to her?"

"No. Never. I didn't run back to Maria, I swear."

Alice simply stared.

"I came back here to get myself together. It just didn't—I got sidetracked with the research, and all the media speculation about when the game would be out, and what it would be about, and I couldn't face you until I had it right. I want to be _right_ for you."

"And Maria was supposed to help with that?" He didn't know if she'd even really spoken, or he'd just heard her voice in his head. She was so still, her eyes so dead.

"You have no reason to believe me, darlin', I know that. But I hadn't seen or even spoken with Maria until the encampment. And I—we just talked, and she seemed different, like she wanted to be my friend. Just a friend. We really didn't. Not before you got there, not—"

This wasn't working. He had no defense. As much as he wanted to say he wouldn't have gone through with it, that probably wasn't true. Alice had seen it for herself: his lowest moment. "What I've been telling myself for years is wrong. Maria and I can't be friends." Jasper leaned his head back against the wall. He'd been such an idiot, and he was out of excuses. If he wanted to keep Alice, and he did, it was time to stand and fight. "I'm done with it all. Pot, reenactments, Maria. None of that matters. I want _you_, Ali. You, and all the babies you're willin' to have with me. If you'll still have me."

Alice crept to her knees and began gathering up the photos on the floor, lovingly stacking them back into the memory box. Her hand went to her face. She wiped her wet fingers on her jeans before gathering more pictures. "I read Bella's notes." Her back was to him now as she closed the lid of the box. "I hurt her just as much as Edward did." Her shoulders shook, but she didn't make a sound. Damn it, he wanted to touch her. "And I want so badly to make it right, and I don't know if I ever can." A sob broke free, but she quelled it with a quick breath in. "But I have to try."

She stood and picked up the box, then put a foot on the stepladder. "She wants to hate me, I saw it. But she can't." Jasper was already on his feet when another sob wracked her. Though she was usually more agile than the average bobcat, she wobbled, clutching at the shelf above for balance while still hugging the box in her other arm. Jasper took it from her, placed it on the shelf and lifted her down. Again, her back was to his chest, and again, he pulled her in and held her close. "Do you know how much I want to hate you, Jasper?" Her tiny body shook and shook as she cried, and all he could do was stand and absorb it. This was what he had done, and it was the only way forward.

When she stilled, Jasper reached behind him and pulled the picture he'd hidden out of his back pocket. She wiped her eyes on the hem of her shirt then held out a hand for it. He placed it there and waited.

After a moment, she pushed his hand from her waist and stepped out of his embrace. But she turned her head enough to glance at him once. She lifted his hand, closed her eyes and put the palm to her lips. Then she retreated from the closet and into the ensuite, locking the door behind her.

**A/N Would you, could you? Please press review and let me know what you think of the story so far. I'm always so happy to hear from you.**

**Some exciting news: my wonderful beta Serendipitous, aka MeilleurCafe, set up a forum for Release on Twilighted. Stop by if you'd like to discuss the story. It's where I'll post photos, teasers, questions and even some answers.**

**The talented and generous Robrator created a banner for Release as part of thetwilightedawards (dot) com Banner Giveaway. It's gorgeous, and links to it are available on the forum. Thank you, Robrator!**

**As always, I owe a debt of gratitude to my beta Serendipitous and pre-reader Isabeausink. Without their sharp eyes and insights, these chapters would be considerably less reader-ready. **

**Since I'm far too chatty already, I'll just say if you're not reading sleepyvalentina's Fall to Ruin One Day, you're missing an original and compelling story, including a master sommelier Bella. She won a Best Story award in the Sparkleteers' Rare Gem Awards, and it's a well-deserved honor. So go! Read! **

**After you leave me a review, of course.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own black high-heeled boots, red suede mid-calf boots, grey ankle boots and the plot of this story. I also have the most generous and thoughtful beta and prereader. Serendipitous/MeilleurCafe and Isabeausink, thank you. For everything.**

**Two important alerts:**

**First, this chapter contains a scene of public power exchange between a Dom and sub. There is no public sex, but there is public nudity. It bears repeating: I'm no BDSM expert, so don't rely on this fiction to teach you how to play safely. If you're interested in the lifestyle, there are many credible sources out there. Seek them out and do your homework.**

**Second, the chapter introduces a character who is a rape survivor. Her rape is not graphically described, but is discussed here in general terms. Anyone sensitive to this topic should consider whether reading this chapter is worth your possible discomfort. I admire the courage of any woman who has survived rape or sexual assault, and hope I do justice to this character's past.**

**If you're not old enough to vote, you're not old enough to read this fiction. Begone! Please. So your mom doesn't hate me when she checks your "recents." And you know she will …**

Chapter 7

The leotard was sheer, a mere wisp of fog. It was just enough to make it clear she wasn't entirely naked—thus complying with local ordinances—without hiding anything. Exactly as Jacob envisioned it. He led her from the gallery's back room to stand beside the pedestal and released the leash as she took her position, head down, legs spread, fingers laced behind her back.

"Very good, Isabella." He ran a hand down her arm, a signal for her to relax her stance. She raised her chin and let her arms fall to her side, but kept her eyes trained on the floor. Perfect.

The gallery was a bit chilly; Isabella's nipples were erect in a fashion that didn't indicate arousal. Yet. Though they had already discussed this exhibit in detail, he talked her through what he was about to do, finishing with, "You will be bound from collarbone to ankle, Isabella. When I finish, I will position you on this pedestal. You will be a work of art. My work of art. Do you understand?"

Since he had forbidden her to speak for the evening, it was a rhetorical question. Still, he saw the answer in her body. Though she was clearly chilled, her shoulders were soft, her posture relaxed. She was willing.

Jacob stepped away and found the bank of light switches, nodding to the blonde and imposing gallery owner, who clearly disapproved of Isabella, though she'd been entirely enthusiastic about the photographs and sculptures as well as Jacob's concept for the exhibit. She'd even done the work to ensure exhibiting Isabella herself was within the laws of the City of Port Angeles.

The walls held his black-and-white photographs of Isabella in various states of bondage. The images were edgy, but not pornographic, focused as they were on line, curve, and the contrasts of light and dark. The pedestals between the photographs held the wood pieces he'd created for the playroom photographs. Isabella had seen the photographs, but was unaware of the eponymous tribute to her was to be revealed tonight. The Isabella sculpture would stand on a pedestal on one side of a wide column; Isabella herself, bound and beautiful in ivory rope, would stand on a matching pedestal on the other side. She would hear viewers' comments on the piece all night, hear her name over and over, but not see it until the opening party was over. She was forbidden to break position except when Jacob came to set the next pose. Each pose included a focal point for her gaze, to aid balance and keep her as still as the sculpture beside her.

He adjusted the light placed over the pedestal where Bella would be displayed for the evening. It was halogen, and its heat would keep her comfortable enough until the gallery filled and warmed.

He returned to her and picked up the first length of rope. "Lift your breasts."

Isabella complied and he began wrapping the rope around her ribcage over the slight impression left by her bra, tightening and knotting with practiced adjustments. She would feel restricted, but pleasantly so. She'd told him before it made her feel secure. Safe. Owned.

That last word in her voice sent a thrill through him. Owned. He wanted to own Isabella not merely as a weekend playroom companion, but as a lover in every sense. He had her body; he understood her mind. He longed to possess her heart. She didn't know it, but she already owned him.

"Release." She returned her breasts to their natural position, then held her arms slightly out from her sides so Jacob could freely wind rope around her. Her skin was still cool to the touch, her feet just the slightest bit waxy with a chill that Jacob knew from experience would burn off long before he finished the shibari. He placed a knot between her breasts, intentionally but subtly grazing them as he continued on with the corset, which came up like a halter from a center knot to lift her breasts, raising her nipples, which were at last aroused rather than cold.

Jacob had permission from Rosalie, the gallery owner, to remain in the gallery after closing, ostensibly to release Isabella from his ropes. He hoped to release her from much more. He would declare himself tonight, once they were alone, once she was trembling from his touch. He was so certain of her obedience, he hadn't even prepared the necessary discipline should she err.

She wouldn't. Too much was at stake, for his art and for their relationship. She had to realize it.

The exhibit was a departure. While Jacob was well known for his sculptures, he hadn't showed photographs since his university days, and then only in a student show. And there was risk for Isabella, too, though it was small since they were hours away from Seattle and her colleagues and students.

Rope after rope, knot after knot, Jacob wound and tied, testing with a finger slipped here and there beneath the ropes, assuring that the shibari wasn't restrictive enough to prevent Isabella from assuming the various positions planned. He also took time to tease her body, running fingers and lips gently along exposed skin, pressing his body against her while winding the rope. Never lingering, building desire. When at last he finished, Isabella appeared almost in a trance, and a small smile played about her lips. Jacob loved these moments, the subtle cues that his ministrations brought her peace. She was pale and beautiful in the ivory rope; no one could mistake the inspiration for the carving that, with Isabella herself, formed the centerpiece of the opening.

While Jacob worked, the caterers arrived. They were well into setting up portable bars and tables for hors d'oeuvres. Though Isabella kept her eyes trained on the floor, Jacob watched as realization washed over her. As soon as she registered eyes on her, despite being unable to see them, her skin warmed and flushed, her breathing became shallow. If this were a club rather than a gallery, Jacob would make her stand, still and silent, while he worked her body to the brink before attentive eyes, as he had done a few times before.

They would do it again. Soon, he promised himself.

Jacob signaled for Isabella to kneel on the floor so she could rest until it was time to get in position for the opening. Then he bent to retrieve the remaining lengths of rope, taking the opportunity to discreetly adjust himself. It would require a good deal of his self-discipline tonight to work the room full of art patrons without sporting an erection. But Jacob was practiced at self-control, and didn't plan to look at Isabella, except when changing her poses. They had prepared several; her position was to change every 15 to 20 minutes, both to relieve her muscles and to recreate the photographs and sculptures. Mostly, he would look at the people around her, both to watch them appreciate her and to make sure they didn't touch. _Mine._

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Rosalie Hale's only investor was late, and Rosalie hated waiting. Even more, she hated the woman across the gallery from her who had walked with her eyes cast down while Jacob Black led her on a leash. A fucking leash.

They hadn't discussed his relationship with the subject of his photographs during their meetings. Rosalie had assumed the woman was a model until she followed him in, head bowed, and knelt at his feet while he spoke with Rosalie about the final arrangements. The woman leaned her head against his leg like a dog, for Christ's sake. She wondered what kind of beatings it took to get a woman, any woman, to put up with that shit.

Rosalie's fingers strayed to the scar that paralleled her cheekbone before turning sharply, just beneath the apple of her cheek, toward her jaw. When the wound was new, it gave her the look of a ghoulish marionette. Now it was thin and silvered, and somehow made her more beautiful than before, if less conventionally pretty.

Beauty. Rosalie dealt in it daily, though now the focus was on the art she brought into her gallery rather than her music. Once a rising piano prodigy, Rosalie hadn't set foot in a concert hall or played publicly since the rape. It had taken her months to touch a piano afterward; even now she couldn't reliably play. If she struck an off chord, as she had when Royce clapped a hand over her mouth while she practiced in what she believed was an empty concert hall, she still had flashbacks. The Hale Gallery, while not her dream, served two important purposes. She'd needed to get away from New York, the scene of the crime as well as the social circle in which she and Royce ran before they all sided with him (and his money and family connections) in the war of he-said, she-said. And she'd needed a purpose.

It was suitably ironic that the assault intended to disfigure her—he'd said as much while

she tried and failed to fight him off—had somehow made her more compelling. And though the attack had cost her her music career, Rosalie had, in the end, relocated from one intersection of beauty and commerce to another. She had an instinct for art, and had already made a name for her gallery. A name in an obscure place on the opposite coast from everyone who knew or cared about who and what she'd once been. Well, all except one: her investor, who had ties to the West Coast. When he approached her with his offer, he said he hoped she would consider him a silent partner. The term made Rosalie profoundly wary.

The caterer's driver walked in and, after taking in an eyeful of the mostly naked woman being tied up, approached Rosalie. She waited, ready to snap him out of whatever fantasy he was conjuring if he even glanced at her tits, but the guy scrutinized his clipboard for a moment before meeting her eyes. Just her eyes. Her lips twitched and she almost smiled. "I've got all the tables, glassware and alcohol in the van. Can we unload in back?" The gallery had a garage door in the alley, suitable for deliveries of everything from giant rolls of paper—it was an abandoned printing plant before Rosalie's silent partner purchased and refurbished the property—to larger art installations.

"Sure. I'll open it up. The alley's a one-way, so go around on the north side of the building." Rosalie turned on her heel and strode away, not waiting to feel his appraising glance. She always got one. At five feet eleven inches tall with golden hair cascading nearly to her waist, she looked like an avenging angel, if avenging angels had a spectacular rack and the perfect ass. Everyone noticed, men and women, whether she was wearing a pencil skirt or an oversized fisherman's sweater. Today it was both. She'd trade the sweater for a slim red turtleneck before the opening.

He was supposed to be here already. Rosalie trusted her investor more than most, but that wasn't saying much. She was still waiting for a shoe to drop, because frankly, the arrangement he'd offered remained too good to be true. Rosalie knew men. She still half expected him to demand what he might feel entitled to given the kind of financial leverage he had over her. If he was going to suggest that she suck his dick to even things out, Rosalie preferred that he show his cards already. His "really, you're doing me a favor" line was making her edgy. She wished there were a polite way to state for the record that if his cock ever got anywhere near her mouth, it would meet teeth.

Or worse. Since the rape, Rosalie kept a small but exceedingly sharp switchblade on her person at all times.

As she re-entered the gallery space, the artist had his model/bitch/slave/whatever's hair wrapped around his wrist, her head pulled close as he bent and spoke in her ear from behind. The woman didn't appear to respond in any way—stock still, eyes on the floor. Rosalie swallowed hard. She could almost feel Royce's breath on her own neck. Feel the blade as it sliced away the strap of her tank as well as the skin just below her right collarbone from sternum to shoulder. She could control the panic, but not the surge of anger.

Why didn't Rope Chick shake herself free, grab him by the hair and throw him over her shoulder? Rosalie wanted to kick her in the shins, wake her the fuck up. She needed Rope Chick to do _something_. Anything. Rosalie despised all deer in the headlights, literal and figurative. Because there had been a moment, a single moment, when she might have gotten away if she hadn't frozen.

That failure had cost Rosalie her career, her music and so much more. She touched her collarbone through the sweater. The scar was almost invisible now, but Rosalie felt it like a pulse.

Rosalie shivered, clutching the bulky sweater around her, widening her eyes. There would be no tears. She hadn't cried since the day it happened, not even when she first saw herself in the mirror at the hospital. She just needed to look at something to ground herself. Anything but Rope Chick. The pale wood statue that stood to one side of the central column was an exquisite balance of curve and extension, arc and line. Rosalie's eyes strayed to the woman, who was starting to look like a mermaid in a net. Isabella, the sculpture was named. It hit Rosalie in an instant: even the sculpture was about her, this Isabella. The artist had built the entire show around her. He was making a career out of her, just as Royce, conductor and manager extraordinaire, had tried to do with Rosalie before she balked.

Rosalie liked Jacob Black. She did. Which only proved what she already knew: even her own disaster-sharpened instincts could be wrong. The guy was yet another innocuous-looking monster.

Constant vigilance. Rosalie tossed back her hair and released her arms. Constant. Vigilance.

The catering staff, lugging in the first table, headed toward the wrong end of the gallery. "That goes over here," she called, snapping her fingers and pointing to the correct location. Jacob Black had turned out to be a sick bastard, but from a business perspective, Rosalie's instincts were right on the money: he was talented, and his work would sell. With any luck, this show would clear enough that she could approach her silent partner with an offer to buy him out. Rosalie checked her phone. He was now almost an hour late. They had agreed to meet prior to the show to discuss another joint project: Seth Clearwater, who was also late. Rosalie crossed the gallery and stood beside her piano, which Seth would play tonight as patrons mingled. She'd selected music specifically to exclude anything she'd performed herself. If the stupid punk showed up.

Her investor had agreed to come to other openings, and had been a no-show every time. A dozen white roses always arrived via messenger the following day, along with a hand-written note of apology quoting anything favorable mentioned in a review. Perhaps it would be best if he was a no-show again tonight, especially if Seth didn't arrive, or wandered in drunk or high.

Rosalie wanted to hit something, but the only thing close enough was her piano. She let her hand fall to her side. Fuck them both.

Yes, she wanted to straighten out Seth and open doors for him. And yes, she wanted Edward Cullen out of her business, to own it free and clear. But, if Seth pulled his usual shit or Cullen made any demands with Rope Chick in the room, Rosalie would probably shank them, and she didn't want it to come to that. Rosalie was too beautiful for prison, and she didn't ever wear jumpsuits.

She took a cleansing breath, then straightened to her full height and stalked to her office, studiously ignoring the woman now fully bound and kneeling on the floor. She closed the door, flipped the lock and stripped off her sweater. As always, she ran a finger along each scar before she pulled the red turtleneck over her head. Somehow, touching them grounded her in her own skin. Rosalie opened the closet door to look in the small mirror that hung there. She finger-combed her hair, applied a sheer cherry gloss to her lips and added the finishing touch: fine silver earrings that hung almost to her shoulders. By objective standards, she was stunning.

Rosalie sighed. It was going to a long, but hopefully profitable, night.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Edward fully intended to be on time. But when he emerged from the florist, a bouquet of white roses in hand, he found a long-haired greasebag trying to break into Hair Shirt.

"Hey!"

He didn't care one whit for the car, but the guy still pissed him off, and on instinct, Edward chased him down. The tackle was almost too easy.

Despite his height, the kid was clearly young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and had taken something that made him clumsier than the usual gangly highschooler.

"What the fuck?" It was a legitimate question, man to man. Well, man to boy.

"Sorry, I thought it was my car. I've got one that looks a lot like it." The kid was giggly.

"What's your name?"

The teenager was trying hard not to laugh, and now that the initial anger had burned off, Edward was tempted to himself. He was all over the map these days. It had been nearly two months since Alice moved back into the Forks house, and he'd been off kilter the entire time. Something about his sister made him a little manic. Or maybe just made him feel again.

Edward rose to his feet, brushing debris from his slacks and jacket, which now had a giant tear in the elbow. His elbow throbbed from where he'd hit the ground when he brought the kid down. He offered the boy a hand up, which he took after a moment of hesitation.

Apparently, Edward hadn't thought to drop the bouquet before he tackled. It lay crushed when the kid stood up, staggering and giggling at it like he was watching a cartoon.

"Pick those up," Edward barked.

Surprisingly, the boy did it, swaying the whole while. He held them out with a goofy grin, though he had the decency to try to stop laughing when he met Edward's gaze.

"They're ruined." Edward said it sternly, trying to impress the gravity of the situation on the kid, who once again dissolved into giggles. The little fucker had tried to steal his car, ruined the flowers for Rosalie, and made him even later than he already was. He glared. "What's your name?"

Something about his low, clipped words made the kid sober instantly. He tried to hand Edward the flowers while stammering, "I'm sorry man, but I have to—"

Edward grabbed the kid's jacket and dragged him toward Hair Shirt. "You're coming with me." The boy struggled, but Edward pulled and dragged, and the kid was far too clumsy to break his hold.

"Dude, I have to go. I'm really late and Rosalie's going to fucking kill me if—" Edward smelled it then, the distinct aroma of pot. He hated the stuff: he'd had enough of Jasper's love affair with Mary Jane to last him a lifetime. Thankfully, he hadn't caught a single whiff of it in the months since Jasper had moved into a separate bedroom from Alice in the family house.

"You're Seth?"

The kid nodded and stared, apparently awed into stupidity.

"How do you know—"

Edward cut him off with one word. "Rosalie."

"Fuuuuuck." The kid tipped his head back and let the word float up to the sky.

"Yeah, you're fucked." Edward shoved the roses back at him. "These were for her, and you get to explain what happened to them."

Seth hung his head and followed Edward to Hair Shirt without a word.

Once they were inside and Edward spun the car to life, Seth murmured, "You're the guy, aren't you?"

"I'm the guy." He gave Seth a cursory nod then watched traffic for an opening. "Edward Cullen. Pleased to meet you."

Seth slumped and whispered another prolonged. "Fuuuuck."

Edward let the silence hang in the car until he pulled into the municipal lot closest to the gallery. Street parking was long gone; the opening was already underway. He decided to let Seth squirm until Rosalie got hold of him.

But apparently Seth had other plans. He turned to Edward. "Look, Mr. Cullen, I'm … I …" Edward raised an eyebrow, waiting. He wasn't going to make it easy. It only took a moment of staredown for the boy to retreat behind his punk façade. He cleared his throat. "This is the ugliest fucking car I've ever seen." He leapt out and ran toward the gallery with surprising speed, but Edward caught him just as he put a hand on the door.

"Here." He shoved the smashed bouquet into Seth's hand then gestured for him to go in.

Rosalie stood near the entrance, hurrying the late arrivals through coat check so the floor would be full for her introductory speech, when Seth Clearwater entered, clutching crushed white roses wrapped in cellophane, followed by Edward Cullen. They looked as if they'd been rolling around in the alley.

She took each by an elbow and hurried them to her office, shutting the door and leaning against it.

"What the hell did you do this time?" Rosalie hissed at Seth, who held out the flowers and cowered behind them, not meeting her eye. "You look like … never mind. You need to change clothes and get to that piano half an hour ago." She snatched the flowers from him and widened her eyes as if to say, _what are you waiting for_. When he still appeared to be at a loss, she pointed to the clothing bag hanging on the coat rack. "Get changed." When he opened his mouth a time or two, she snapped, "We're not leaving and we're not looking."

Then she turned to address Cullen. "I wondered if you'd been unavoidably detained." She couldn't resist adding, "Again." She extended her hand. "Thanks for finding him." Cullen shook her hand, clearly taking great pains not to look toward Seth. Men.

"I'm sorry to arrive under such, um, unusual circumstances." He released her hand and nodded toward the door. "And at such an inopportune time." After an awkward pause in which he was clearly thinking of how to say something, he added, "I was indeed unavoidably detained." His eyes strayed to Seth, who had his back turned to them, tucking a starched white shirt into black trousers.

Rosalie rolled her eyes. "What'd he do this time? Try to mug you in the alley?"

Edward shook his head and tried not to smile. "Nope. Tried to steal my Aston Martin from the florist's parking lot."

"That piece of shit is an Aston Martin?" Seth, who had finished with the shirt and slacks, fumbled with a tie, apparently unable to decide how long to make each end before attempting a Windsor knot.

Rosalie crossed the office in two long strides and slapped his hands away. "What the hell is wrong with you, Seth?" She sniffed while her hands whipped through the procedure. "You're baked again, aren't you?"

Seth stilled, rather like a dog being scolded, and mumbled, "Sorry, Miss Hale."

She shoved the knot up to his neck and slapped his chest by way of giving the tie a final straighten. "Don't 'Miss Hale' me. Get out there and earn your keep." She raised an eyebrow at him, reminding him of the significance of the evening.

Seth dropped his head. "Right." As he eased himself between Edward and Rosalie, he muttered, "I'm really sorry, Mr. Cullen," and slipped out the door. The music began before Rosalie managed to say a word.

It was terrible timing—she should be out introducing Jacob Black and giving her prepared comments about his work. But Cullen had showed up, and Rosalie suddenly had no idea what to do.

Fortunately, he seemed to grasp the dilemma. "Since I'm late, perhaps we should reschedule the meeting portion of the evening for another time?"

Rosalie nodded, relief clearing her head. She opened the office door. "I hope you enjoy the show."

Edward made his way directly to the bar, keeping an eye and an ear on Seth. "Scotch please, neat. Laphroaig if you have it." The bartender apologized and Edward nodded as the man proffered a bottle of Glenlivet. It would do well enough. He asked for a double, left a generous tip, then took up a position that allowed him to keep an eye on Seth. Though he couldn't really look at the artwork this way, he wanted to watch the boy play.

The punk had disappeared. The young man at the piano was utterly absorbed by the music he made, and he made it well. Edward listened, taking in the nuances. Seth didn't just march through piece after piece like most piano students. He seemed to feel the source of the music, to interpret it with an understanding that belied his age and earlier attitude. And his technique was excellent. Rosalie was right: Seth appeared to have real potential. Edward would know more when he could have Seth play some Debussy or Stravinsky.

While he listened, he reviewed the boy's story: Seth had made the mistake of trying to mug Rosalie, who had frightened him enough that he pissed himself—apparently, she carried a knife. Edward shook his head. Rosalie was one scary woman. She hadn't pressed charges, instead requiring him to work off his transgression in the early days, when there had been plenty of grunt work to be done converting the factory to a gallery. Then she'd caught him, a few days after her piano was delivered, playing when he thought he was alone.

In one of the most awkward phone calls of Edward's life, Rosalie proposed to push Seth toward piano and hopefully save him from the rest of his life, which wasn't promising. His father had died when he was thirteen, and he'd been running wild since. His mother, grief-stricken and holding down two jobs to make ends meet, simply didn't have the resources to manage him, and his older sister was away at college. Seth was a 24/7 job.

Rosalie's job at the moment, soon to be Edward's if he agreed to help. Rosalie had explained her limits: beyond not being in a position to back him financially, flashbacks prevented her from working him through the repertoire he'd need to get into a good music program.

And so Edward listened more, letting the Scotch warm him to his purpose. He was here to do something that, perhaps for the first time, could be seen as a good deed.

It was daunting, and Edward liked it. He'd wanted to help someone, to be truly useful, for a long time. It was something he'd learned from Bella.

And it was why he'd initially infuriated Rosalie by refusing to take her as a Denali Group client. He'd taken one look at her, all scars and a settlement check, and thought, _not her_. So he'd sent her to another broker, a safe one, and let her think he was an asshole. Then he made her suspicious when he approached her with this business venture. She might never trust him, which was fine with Edward. He didn't deserve anyone's trust. But she might benefit too, and that gave Edward hope.

Seth glanced up, but when he saw that Edward was looking, he ducked his head again. Edward liked his focus.

He stepped around the piano and put a hand on his shoulder then bent to speak in his ear. "Does this feel better than being tackled in the florist's parking lot?"

Seth's dark eyes met his, and Edward watched a world of pain and confusion flit past before the boy could stop it. Seth's face tightened, and he nodded, bringing the piece to a close and resting his hands on the keys.

Edward clapped his shoulder, and when the boy again met his gaze, he simply said, "Good."

A hush fell and he saw that Rosalie had moved to the center of the room. Edward broke protocol by turning away, listening to her introduce the artist while looking at the first photograph: a woman's body in profile, back arched so that the ropes around her torso and legs connected to a small metal hoop like rays from a pictogram of the sun. Her arms, stretched back so she could hold her feet, obscured her face, except for the tip of her chin, tantalizing above the column of her arched neck. He'd been admiring the curves and lines for several minutes before it occurred to him that she was naked. It took him another moment to realize why: one of the ropes across her torso covered her nipples, and since she rested on her pelvis, no pubic hair showed, either. Dark hair, resting long and loose on her back and visible between the ropes, stirred something, a memory he couldn't quite reach, so he moved to the next photograph.

Ropes again, clearly under tension, and lit so that one edge glowed, as if sun were pouring in through a window. The ropes, again like rays, all met at a woman's hips, which were bent as if the ropes suspended her. Only the sweet curve of her ass, with skin so pale it looked almost iridescent, showed in the picture. The light skimmed it in such a way that Edward ached to touch. It looked as if the surface of her skin were cool, but if he cupped that curve with his hand, it would be so, so warm.

Suddenly, his throat ached. Edward took a shaky breath, followed by a gulp of Scotch. It burned through the knot in his throat, and for a moment he thought all might be well. But he looked at the next photograph, of a diamond-shaped pattern made in dark rope on a pale torso. The woman's chin was lifted, dark hair cascading down her back, her breasts pushed up. And a mole was beautifully placed just below and to the outside of the model's right breast. A mole he knew and cherished. Something he'd nurtured a hope that no one else had ever seen.

Then one word from Rosalie's introduction broke through. "Isabella."

Polite applause startled Edward, and he turned to catch what everyone else in the room was already looking at. With relief, he saw a wood sculpture and he found he could breathe.

But then he saw her.

Bella.

Naked, bound and on a pedestal, back arched over a carved wooden form, the mole in question, and the breasts above it, displayed like so much sculpture.

Edward's insides quaked as he took step after step toward her. Strangely, the only thought he could muster was, _she hates being called Isabella_. He used to say it, with mock solemnity, to tease her. Or when he was overtaken by emotion, unable to stop himself because it rolled off the tongue so beautifully, and she was so beautiful.

Though people milled about, murmuring and sipping wine, she didn't move. Edward couldn't stop looking, though he wanted to shield her, and himself, too. It was too much. It made no sense. And he desperately wanted to see her eyes.

He knocked back the rest of the Scotch. Without realizing it, he reached out, gathering up her hair, which hung almost to the pedestal, and buried his face in it. He choked out a hoarse, "Bella, love." God, the smell of her.

He was so close, his head beside hers.

She was shaking. Was she cold? Scared?

Edward never got a chance to ask. He was on the floor before he knew what—or more accurately, who—hit him.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Rosalie grabbed Jacob's shirt and yanked him back. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. Her attempt at discretion was useless, though; everyone's eyes were riveted on either the outraged artist or her investor, sprawled on the floor with a bound woman cupping his jaw in her hand and rocking back and forth whispering, "Edward?" again and again like she was seeing a ghost.

"Isabella." Just one word, but the room went silent. Jacob positively vibrated under Rosalie's grip.

Rope Chick didn't seem to register the voice. Her eyes were riveted on Cullen.

This could go either way, and apparently, it was up to Rosalie alone to see that patrons stayed, photographs sold and no one came to blows. She dragged Jacob to the photographs closest to Seth and gave the kid a look which demanded, however unreasonably, that he keep the artist there. Seth's eyes widened, and he nodded and shrugged at the same time. Fucking perfect. The kid was chicken now. Rosalie cuffed the back of his head as she hurried to her office. She grabbed her sweater and returned to the gallery.

Isabella still knelt over Cullen, but she was now silent, her hand clasped between both of his. Cullen's eyes were closed, but it was clear he was conscious. Tears escaped across his temple and his chest shook silently.

Without ceremony, Rosalie bunched up the sweater and pulled it over Isabella's head. The woman automatically put her free arm through the sleeve, and the sweater, almost the same color as the ropes, enveloped her torso.

The rustle of clothes seemed to rouse Cullen, who opened his eyes and riveted them on Isabella, who stared back at him until Rosalie said, through teeth clenched in an angelic smile aimed at her customers, "Let's take this to my office." She tugged at Isabella's arm and she stood. For once, the woman's eyes weren't glued to the floor, so Rosalie got a good look at them. Fathomless brown, and welling with a sorrow unlike any Rosalie had witnessed before. And she'd witnessed plenty: her shrink had bullied her into attending a survivor's group meeting. Whatever had happened to Isabella wasn't pretty, and it involved Cullen.

Rosalie glanced down at Edward, who began to sit up when Isabella's hand slipped from his.

"Are you hurt?" The fall hadn't looked especially painful, but you never knew.

Cullen shook his head and murmured, "No, I'm used to it," and Rosalie didn't waste time trying to figure out what the hell he meant. She nodded curtly and propelled Isabella to her office.

She held the door open and addressed Isabella for the first time. "You'll be okay by yourself for a while? I need to get out there and sell some art."

To Rosalie's surprise, Isabella met her eyes and said, in a firm, matter-of-fact voice, "Yes, thank you." She paused and gave a soft snort that sounded like disbelief before adding, "Nice sweater. I appreciate the loan."

It was a lie. Bella was not fine. The shaking got worse and worse, and she wished the ropes were tighter. Or off. She wasn't sure.

Damn Edward Cullen.

One touch and something burst, and it felt like light. Like the sun, hot enough to scorch, to blind. But golden.

Like home.

Bella perched on the chair behind the desk, but felt strangely guilty there, like a thief. She tried the chair across from the desk. Her concentration, her sub-mind was shattered, and yet she wondered if it would help to kneel. She wished the ropes were off so they wouldn't grind into the floor beneath her knee. Nevertheless, she knelt. And it helped.

Fortunately, that was how Jacob found her when the office door opened.

Unfortunately, she immediately looked up at him in expectation. Of what, she couldn't say. There were so many ways this could play out.

"Eyes, Isabella," he barked, and she dropped them with a silent sigh.

"You will remain here, and silent, until I'm ready to untie the shibari. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have I given you permission to speak?" he snapped. His voice was wrong. Jacob had never displayed a temper during their weekends together. Discipline and punishment were meticulous and dispassionate. But Bella sensed rage, and it put her on alert. Her sub-mind was nowhere to be found, but she had the good sense to keep her eyes down and remain silent. At last, he grumbled, "Better," and left, closing the door with a sound thump.

She knelt there for at least half an hour, but when her legs began to fall asleep, she pulled her coat from the rack, wrapped it around herself and curled up in the largest chair.

If she dozed it was just for a moment. Still, the next thing she heard was her name.

Bella opened her eyes to find Edward kneeling beside her, staring at her as if he wasn't sure she was real.

"You're here?" Was she dreaming?

But he nodded then reached toward her ankle, touching the rope there. Bella had never been as keenly aware of her bare skin as she was then, waiting for his fingers to find it. At last they did, but his eyes stayed on hers.

He looked older, exhausted. Dark rings circled his eyes, fine lines radiated from their corners and his frown lines were more pronounced. He had never looked more melancholy or more perfect.

She shook her head. He couldn't be real. "Why?"

"Bella." The word came out strangled, and Edward swallowed loudly enough for her to hear it. He cleared his throat, but still, his words came out in a cracked whisper. "Tell me he doesn't hurt you."

The dreamlike moment cracked like crystal and Bella's mouth twisted into a small, stricken smile. "That's a remarkable question, coming from you."

A look of revulsion passed over his face. "Does he …" a shudder passed through him. "Rosalie said something about a leash." His eyes pleaded with her, and Bella smiled again.

"Would you like to see my collar?" She reached into her coat pocket, though the collar wasn't actually there. It was Jacob's prerogative to put it on her or remove it.

"No!" Edward grabbed her arm, preventing her from removing her empty hand from her pocket. "You don't have to do this, Bella. We should leave, I can keep you safe if he—"

"Safe?" Bella barked out an angry laugh. "When was I ever safe with you?"

"You don't have to let him—"

"Let him what, Edward? Tie me up? Flog me? Bend me over and cane my bare ass?"

He was pulling at his tie now, struggling for air.

"I don't _let_ him do that to me." She allowed the look of relief to spread across his face before she finished. "I _beg_ him to."

Edward looked stricken. "Beg?"

"On my knees, Edward." She said each word quietly but distinctly, her gaze never wavering as she watched him make the connection.

"You beg him to hurt you?" There was something different in his voice, something she recognized. It was the first flickering of what promised to grow into a towering rage.

She nodded, egging him on. "I like it."

"No." His anger seemed to make him taller, more imposing. "That's not who you are."

"You don't know anything about me, Edward."

"I know you deserve better than this." He was fierce now, and very close. They were almost nose to nose. "You deserve someone who loves you."

"Love?" She made the word absurd, as if he'd said she deserved a unicorn.

The door swung open, revealing a smiling Rosalie saying, "—already sold," followed by a glowering Jacob.

Caught talking again. Bella was suddenly, almost painfully aware of the ropes. She needed them off. She needed the playroom. She needed the flogger or cane, or any other implement that could clear her head. Because she wanted to scream at Edward. What right had he to talk of love or pain? Who was he to judge? She might never have needed this if it weren't for Edward and Alice.

A silent conversation had already begun between Jacob and Edward. Edward rose to his full height, which was impressive, but not as tall as Jacob. "You hurt her," he accused, stepping too close.

Bella stilled as she watched Jacob's temper surge. "I take care of her." Jacob put a hand on her head and pulled her so she rested with her cheek against his hip.

"By tying her up? Walking her on a leash? Parading her naked in front of god knows how many people?" Edward's voice rose as he rattled off the list of offenses.

"I give her what she needs …" he let the sentence hang, indicating that he wanted Edward to supply his name.

When Edward took a step forward, Bella stood, deliberately placing herself between them, and made the introductions. "Jacob Black, this is Edward Cullen. Edward, Jacob."

"… Edward." Jacob said the name to finish his sentence, but there was recognition in his voice Bella didn't understand or like. When he turned to her, his Dom persona wasn't visible. This Jacob was vulnerable, and she feared she had, in that moment, the power to hurt him more than any punishment he'd ever inflicted on her. It was a power she'd never wanted. "How do you know each other?"

Edward started to speak, but Bella cut him off. "We went out a few times in high school." She raised an eyebrow at Edward when he pursed his lips in apparent disagreement with the way she characterized their past.

Jacob glowered at Edward. "You're the one?"

A wary-looking Edward didn't confirm or deny. Bella couldn't decide if she was relieved or disgusted. Why would he admit it now? He'd had his sport and moved on to better, more desirable things.

"She has nightmares, you know." Jacob seemed at war with himself, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Oh God." Edward's anguished eyes shot to hers. "Still?" Bella simply stared at him. What did he mean, _still_?

Jacob didn't appear to notice the exchange. "I don't know what you did to her, but I won't let you hurt her again."

"You _beat_ her and lead her around on a leash, for Christ's sake. I'm not letting her—" Though his words were directed at Jacob, he hadn't taken his eyes off of Bella. They stripped her bare in a way she never could be otherwise, not even standing all but naked in the middle of an art gallery.

"Edward!" The word sliced through the air between the men, and they both turned to her, Jacob still furious, Edward pleading his case.

"There are shelters, Bella. You don't have to—he's got you brainwashed. You don't have to stay with him."

"I love her," Jacob growled. He wrapped a possessive arm around Bella's waist. "And I would never, ever hurt her."

Rosalie stood frozen in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Cullen, lovestricken. So much about him finally made sense. He was in love with Rope Chick, for Christ's sake. Unfortunately for all, so was Jacob Black.

"Stop it! Right now!" Rope Chick's voice quavered with panic, but she pulled herself away from Jacob Black and shied from Cullen when he reached for her. She had backed herself into the corner behind the desk before she gulped out, "I have to go."

When both men reached for her again, Rosalie darted between them. "You heard the lady. She has to go." She threw a protective arm around Isabella, grabbed her coat from the hook and shoved between Jacob and Cullen. If they tried to interfere, she'd gut them both.

"Isabella!" Jacob's intent was unmistakable. If Rope Chick turned around now, he'd snap a leash on her. And probably hide her with it when he got her home.

Rosalie held her breath but kept walking. If Rope Chick turned back now, Rosalie couldn't help her. And those two would pull at her until they snapped her like a wishbone. Black's voice receded, and only one set of footsteps followed. Cullen was close, but not closing in. Not in pursuit.

Rosalie unlocked her Audi, urged Isabella into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut behind her and spun around. There was no one near except Cullen, who was leaning both hands on the hood of the most fucked up car Rosalie had ever laid eyes on. The car's scars seemed oddly equivalent to her own. She almost liked it.

He seemed to sense her watching him and lifted his eyes to hers. Unshed tears sparkled in the streetlight. It clicked then: Cullen was a survivor, too.

Rosalie nodded at him, acknowledging the unspoken fraternity of the broken; he nodded back, shoulders slumped, and got in the car. Rosalie waited for him to pull out before she slid into the driver's seat. As he pulled out into the street, she read the mangled emblem: Aston Martin. She definitely approved.

After checking once again to see that they were alone—and hoping that Seth was now sober enough to deal with Jacob Black and lock up properly—she turned to Isabella.

"What now?"

Isabella leaned back against the headrest and let out the world's weariest sigh. "I have no idea."

Rosalie was annoyed. She'd been fishing for an address. "Where do you live?"

Isabella smirked. "Seattle." Then she rubbed her bare legs—well, bare except for the rope pattern wound around the left one—as if she were feeling around for something and deadpanned, "and I seem to have left my wallet in my other corset."

Rosalie rolled her eyes and suppressed a smile. Rope Chick had some spine after all. "Then I guess you're coming home with me." Without waiting for the pro forma polite refusal, Rosalie threw the Audi into gear, screeching the tires as she turned onto the street.

**A/N: Reviews make my day, so I'm particularly sorry I was slow with responses after Chapter 6. I had this genius idea that I'd send teasers to reviewers, but then didn't have a teaser prepared soon enough, and a nasty cold set in, Christmas came, etc. … Yeah, pure genius. *facepalm* Truly, your reviews made me smile and made me think. I shall try to do better with replies this time, and rumor has it that Edward just might take reviewers of this chapter for a ride in Hair Shirt. So it's worth a shot, right? ;-)**

**My thanks to the Fictionators for saying something nice on their site that sent readers to my story. I'd love to see what they wrote, if anyone knows. I went out there, but couldn't find it. And thanks to Morgan Locklear for kindly recommending Release. His completed vampire fic Bella Voce is terrific, and the sequel, Brutte Parole, is now posting. It's also terrific. MOG and his wife/beta Jenn are among my favorite people in the fandom. Thanks again, you two.**

**Release has been nominated for The Twinklings Walk of Fame Awards in the Mistress of Mystery Category. Thanks to the kind person who did the honors. Many wonderful fics are nominated, and voting begins January 15. There are so many wonderful fics nominated; I hope you'll go and vote for your favorites.**

**In another act of supreme genius, I saved photos representative of the artwork described in this chapter to a Word document, intending to share them with you on Release's Twilighted forum. Today, I realized the flaw in this plan: I can't post them without the hyperlinks. I'm trying to find them again, but it's like searching for a needle in an online haystack. A seriously kinky online haystack. When I find them, I'll post them on the thread. As you can imagine, they are not pix you'll want to view at work or with your kids about.**

**I'm reading a couple of astonishing fics right now: Clockwork, by Derdriu oFaolain, and Pressed for Time, a collaboration between the very talented twanza (author of The Never Ending Math Equation, another remarkably well-written fic) and Chele681. These stories are all human and startlingly original. Go and read, and leave them some well-deserved review love.**

**Until next time, I'll see you on the forum.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight; I own the plot of this story. Make sense? Cool.**

**Thank you to my beta SerendipitousMC, aka MeilleurCafe, and my prereader Isabeausink. They are incomparable, and I couldn't do this without them. **

**Chapter 8**

Emmett McCarty attempted to stretch his long legs to no avail. The woman in front of him had stowed something under her seat. The only saving grace on this flight in coach was the empty seat beside him. He flipped up the arm rest, angled his legs that direction and pulled a LexisNexis report from his computer bag.

Emmett loved LexisNexis. It had tentacles in every public record database in the United States.

Because of the report in his hand, Emmett was on a flight from New York to Seattle, on the brink of breaking the story that had eluded him for more than a year. It was a jackass flight schedule, via Phoenix of all places, arriving at Sea-Tac at 1:44 a.m. on a Saturday morning. But Emmett wasn't waiting another minute longer. He'd check into an airport hotel, sleep for a few hours, then make the drive north.

It had been 19 months since the Securities and Exchange Commission had dismissed yet another complaint against the Denali Group without any serious investigation. Having failed to convince regulators that Denali could be running the biggest Ponzi scheme in history, the whistleblower had turned to the media instead. To Emmett, in fact. Two banker boxes of highly detailed research arrived in his office at _The Wall Street Journal_, carried in by the whistleblower himself. Eric Yorkie, an economist with a backwater think tank, had enthusiasm for his subject bordering on the vitriolic.

The Denali Group had come to Yorkie's attention almost by accident, thanks to an elderly relative whose portfolio he had managed for years. Apparently, Great-aunt Millie informed him that she'd sold all of her stocks and annuities and invested them with the financial adviser of a good friend who swore she got better returns than anyone she knew. Yorkie, miffed and also suspicious, had set to work.

The economist all but frothed at the mouth while relaying his story, so Emmett could understand why someone at the SEC might not take him seriously. But after a thorough examination of the economist's research, it was clear to Emmett that the Denali Group's numbers couldn't be real.

It was just as clear that he would need to get someone from inside the Denali Group to talk if he wanted to find out exactly how the operation worked—not easy when they were all family and friends of Eleazar Denali.

Emmett shifted, trying to find a position that was both comfortable and would allow him to use his laptop, but it was a lost cause. He went with discomfort and booted the machine so he could review the pdfs of every old interview his intern had been able to find. There were plenty: Denali was once the go-to guy for the perfect sound byte about stock market trends and safe investing. But he'd gradually stopped talking to the media. It had been nearly eight years since Denali had contributed more than a cursory comment to any financial news story. Emmett double-clicked on the folder of documents detailing his many attempts to land an interview. The few times he'd managed to get Denali himself on the phone, he had answered Emmett's questions with great circumspection and vagueness. And when Emmett attempted to delve deeper, Denali quickly ended the calls. For the last six months Mr. Denali had been unavailable for comment whenever Emmett called.

If nothing else, Emmett had confirmed that the formerly chatty Denali was now silent as a sphinx. His operation was, in the words of Churchill, a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Which was fine, because, like Churchill, Emmett never, never, never, never gave up.

Okay, it wasn't fine. Emmett had spent months fruitlessly circling the story, especially after the Denali Group's golden boy, Edward Cullen, disappeared immediately following Tanya Denali's elopement with Dimitri Kovach. The news of his fiancée's marriage had barely made the society columns when Cullen seemed to fall of the face of the earth.

He was gone—not just from the Denali Group, but from New York. Emmett hadn't been able to find a trace of him anywhere, which seemed telling enough in itself. He had something to hide. If he could just find Cullen, he had a feeling his story would split wide open.

Now, months later, Emmett had a very promising lead. Solid enough that his editor, after half-heartedly suggesting that they hand this part of the investigation off to a west coast stringer, had approved Emmett's travel expenses and asked his assistant to book the flight.

Emmett withdrew the relevant Lexis/Nexis printout, read it again, and tucked it away. Then he stowed his computer, leaned his head back and closed his eyes, a slight smile playing across his lips. Al Capone hadn't gone down for his true crimes, but for tax evasion. Emmett wondered if the end of Eleazar Denali's scheme, whatever it was, might just begin with the public record of Edward Cullen's real estate holdings in Port Angeles, Washington.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Jacob watched Isabella's retreating form, willing her to turn around and look at him.

When Cullen followed her, Jacob did too, only to be pulled back by a teenager far too stringy to give Jacob any real trouble. "Hey man. Just…" The kid's eyes were half scared, half determined. "Maybe you should cool down first?"

Jacob glanced out the door, but no one was in view. Not that it mattered. How had he lost control of the scene so completely? It was ruined; so were his plans.

He shrugged off the boy's hand but nodded assent. They eyed each other uneasily for a moment, then Seth broke the silence. "I need to …" he waved his hand toward the bar, and Jacob at last noticed the clatter of glassware being stacked into racks for transport, the bustle of wait staff clearing the flat surfaces of abandoned plates and crumpled napkins. One such plate sat on the pedestal that held the Isabella carving; he hurried over to remove it, but instead smoothed a hand over the curves of wood.

His Isabella. Jacob wrapped a hand around one of the slender limbs of the carving.

Her Edward. He'd hated the name of the man who broke her from the first time she said it in her sleep, but Edward was her past, nothing more than a ghost. He, Jacob, was here, now.

Then the ghost showed up in the middle of the most important night of his life: the night he was to tell Isabella he loved her. Jacob released the sculpture. When he said it, she hadn't even looked at him. She only had eyes for her ghost.

The sculpture's pale wood glowed beneath the gallery lights. The arcs and curves balanced perfectly. Although he created it, he realized he was only beginning to understand it.

One of the things he admired about Isabella as a sub was her constancy, her dogged ability to remain in control of her body. The sculpture hadn't been bent by soaking and molding the wood. As he always did, Jacob had found the wood, seen its inherent beauty, and honed away all but the essential. The sculpture had always been there, just like Isabella's strengths. He still believed he could harness those strengths. Not to hurt her, but to free her.

Free her to love again. To love _him_.

Clearly, Isabella once loved Edward. But there was something she couldn't get from Edward, whether or not she still had feelings for him. Jacob straightened up to his full height and drew in a breath deep enough to stretch his chest. Though it hurt, it also centered him and reinforced the truth: he, Jacob Black, was her Dominant. And she craved what he offered.

She might think she wanted Cullen, but it couldn't work. She needed a man who understood her strengths, and the contours of her pleasure and pain. Jacob knew her like no other. He just needed to show her.

When he did, he would have both her love and her submission. In a flash, he saw a future for them, rising from the foundation they forged together in the playroom: a creative partnership, a marriage, a family. Fulfillment.

Jacob took one last look around the gallery and nodded to Seth. The boy made no effort to keep him, so Jacob hefted his bag and walked out the door while dialing his phone.

"Black." No hello, no preamble. Jacob admired her balls, but Rosalie Hale was on his last nerve.

"Isabella please."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You can't talk to her."

Jacob spoke as evenly as he could manage. "She will speak with—"

"Not tonight, Black. I'll bring her to the gallery in the morning. She can talk to you then if she wants." Then the connection went dead.

She hung up on him. It took every lesson from his years as a Dominant to control the impulse to spike his phone. But Jacob Black had self control.

Now, he needed a plan.

He scrolled through his contacts and dialed. "Paul? I need your help."

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Bella pulled off the fisherman's sweater and stood before the mirror in Rosalie's en suite bathroom looking for a way out. She hadn't peed since before Jacob started tying the shibari, and it was becoming a desperate matter. The thought of going through the bodysuit mortified her; tearing it did, too. Either way, she couldn't help getting part of the rope wet. Shame washed over her in a pink flush from her scalp to the tops of her feet. And only Jacob could untie the shibari—the knots were behind her, out of reach.

Feeling guilty, but desperate enough to do it anyway, Bella began opening drawers and cabinets, hoping to find scissors, cuticle nippers, even a nail file that might help her out of the ropes. She was quietly closing the linen closet door when Rosalie said, "Here."

She pressed something into Bella's hand, but didn't let go. "I'll show you." Rosalie stood close behind her and positioned the object in her grip. "Now watch your fingers." Bella moved them as Rosalie indicated then watched in the mirror as Rosalie pressed the release. A blade swung out with a distinct metallic _schick_.

Bella startled and gasped out, "Shit!" But thanks to Rosalie, who had kept her hand around Bella's, she didn't drop the knife. When she met Rosalie's gaze in the mirror, she nodded slightly and Rosalie released her hand.

"Go ahead." It was a whisper; Rosalie's eyes were impossibly wide and, if Bella wasn't mistaken, glassy with unshed tears.

When she hesitated, Rosalie slowly reached around Bella and pulled one of the sections of rope away from her chest. She nodded. "Carefully now. It's very sharp."

Bella looked down and positioned the knife. Her heart was pounding so hard, the rope-marked skin pulsed with every beat. When she had the blade in position, she looked at Rosalie in the mirror, and Rosalie let it go. The rope pulled back, resting against the blade as Bella pushed it out and away. The stranded silk, about the thickness of clothesline, sliced with a quiet hiss then fell away.

Her eyes shot back to the mirror at Rosalie's gasp. Rosalie had her hand over her mouth, and was shaking her head slightly. When she realized Bella was looking, she cleared her throat. "I've been wanting you to do that all day."

Bella dropped her eyes, immediately ashamed and awkward again, but Rosalie nudged her. "Want me to …" She nodded her head toward Bella's lower half and Bella gratefully handed her the knife. Rosalie made quick work of the ropes that kept Bella from opening the snapped crotch of the body suit. Then Rosalie's mobile rang. She set the knife on the counter and murmured, "I'll give you some privacy," while extracting the phone from the waistband of her skirt and hurrying out of the bathroom.

When she was alone, Bella reached to unsnap the bodysuit, but stopped. Grasping the knife and watching her movements in the mirror this time, she cut the fabric and dropped the knife on the counter, backing away to sit on the toilet and finally relieve herself.

She could see her face in the mirror as she sat there, but it was as if she were looking at her life with Rosalie's eyes. What had she become? Bella wrapped her arms around herself and released the huge, silent sobs that had been stuck in her chest ever since Edward touched her.

Edward.

In her nightmares, an invisible but impenetrable wall always kept her from touching Edward. But in her fantasies, the ones where Edward witnessed a scene, _she_ was untouchable, body and soul. _See, Edward? You can't hurt me now._

But in the gallery, Edward had touched her. Touched her and whispered her name and cried.

She hugged herself harder, but her arms pressed Jacob's ropes against her ribs. Suddenly, she felt she was suffocating. She couldn't get to the knife fast enough.

Bella cut rope after rope, her hands shaking so hard that at last she nicked herself. A short, shallow cut at her hip bone bled one red tear as she stared at it in the mirror. When it trickled to the rope at the top of her thigh, she resumed cutting, slow and steady this time, until the last of the rope fell away. She eased the remains of the body suit over her head and stood naked, unable to look at her reflection now that she was bare.

He'd seen her.

Her darkest fantasies always included him witnessing a scene. Though she turned away from these fantasies as soon as she realized she was having one, part of her always hoped he'd see her absorbing each stroke of the flogger or cane, or restraining her orgasm while Jacob fucked her. She wanted him to witness her control, her perfect ability to keep her head in the game and her heart out of it. Every scene, every punishment was proof: she'd never again fall for romance or words of devotion. Scenes were real. Scenes had rules. She could follow them and succeed every time.

At some critical moment in these fantasies, Bella would meet his eyes, victorious. She could beat anyone at this game, even Edward.

Not once had she imagined his tears.

Bella touched the cut on her hip. It was already closing. In a week or so, no one would ever know it had been there. She turned on the faucet and wet her finger, then ran it along her skin below the cut. With a tissue, she wiped away the diluted blood. Through the months when he ignored her after their final, disastrous chat in the woods, Bella cultivated the belief that Edward was cold-hearted, indifferent to her. But his hands and voice tonight—they were as warm as his silent tears.

Alice claimed Edward had always loved her; Jasper said Tanya lied. The image of Tanya on her knees before Edward sprang up unbidden and Bella swallowed hard against tears and nausea. There was no way to reconcile Jasper's and Alice's stories with what she'd seen in the meadow. Was there?

At last, she gazed at herself in the mirror. She'd worn rope marks with pride more times than she cared to consider. Jacob always admired the evidence of his handiwork on her skin. Bella crossed her arms over her breasts, angling her body so the smallest side of her showed in the mirror. Still, the rope marks were there.

If Edward had used her, was she any better?

Jacob loved her. Though she'd done her best to discourage it, she'd known for a while. He finally said it, and she had nothing to give back. She'd played by the letter of the law in their relationship. In doing so, she violated Jacob's spirit, using him and his abilities as a means of escape.

And as awful as she felt for hurting Jacob, there was a deeper, more terrifying truth: nothing had ever shaken her more deeply than Edward's tears.

What did they mean?

And what had she done?

R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Rosalie hung up her phone for the third and last time, plugged in the charger, then returned to her bedroom.

It wasn't overly feminine, but far softer than the living space of her loft apartment with its high ceilings, exposed brick wall, leather sofas and black-and-white photography.

Half-round nightstands of bird's-eye maple, tucked against the wall, held glass lamps topped with the simplest shades. Rosalie switched them on and the champagne-colored walls made the bedroom glow as if by candlelight. She slipped off her tall black boots and crossed to her dresser to sift through its contents for something to sleep in, and something that might fit her unexpected guest. Normally, Rosalie didn't wear pajamas. They made her feel trapped, triggering nightmares.

But Rosalie had no accommodations for overnight guests. She'd been alone for a while now, and that's how she liked it. She looked at her huge bed. With no headboard or footboard to anchor it, and draped in a creamy brocade comforter, it looked like softness itself. It was her safe haven, purchased new when she rented the loft. She'd never shared it with anyone, but now she had no choice. She'd share it with Bella tonight.

Rosalie knocked lightly on the bathroom door, which stood ajar. When Bella didn't answer, she pushed it open slightly to hand in a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved knit shirt. It was sapphire blue like Rosalie's eyes, made of knit silk and very soft. She thought it would look pretty on Bella. Rosalie knew from hard-won experience that sometimes feeling pretty really helped.

"I brought you—"

Bella knelt on the floor, her hands full of cut rope. Her whole body shook—from emotion or cold, Rosalie couldn't tell. She dropped the clothes and knelt beside Bella. "Here." She grabbed the wastepaper basket and placed it between them.

After a moment, Bella blinked and nodded, dropping the scraps of rope in and picking up more. Rosalie did too, working in silence. When the floor was cleared, Bella closed her eyes and she seemed to freeze in place.

Rosalie stood and warmed a washcloth, then knelt again and pressed it to Bella's face. She rose and warmed the cloth again, repeating her actions, waiting for Bella's posture to soften. At last, Bella opened her eyes. "Thank you, Rose." She clutched at Rosalie's hand and squeezed it harder than Rosalie would have thought possible.

Rosalie nodded, unable to speak. She cleared her throat. "Let's get some sleep." Bella obediently donned the pajamas Rosalie handed her, then turned away, quietly closing the bathroom door behind her.

When Rosalie returned to the bedroom, Bella was already curled into a tight ball under the covers. She was sound asleep.

Rosalie's throat ached looking at her. Jacob, Edward, and Edward's sister, who claimed to be a friend of Bella's, had all called tonight. They all had to wait. Rosalie needed to hope, just for tonight, that things would be different for Rope Chick tomorrow. She went to the other side of the bed, slid between the sheets in her unfamiliar pajamas and turned out the lights.

The moon shone bright behind a haze of clouds, spilling a muted rectangle of light onto the floor. It was bright enough to keep her awake, staring at the chestnut hair across the bed from her. Finally, as much to comfort herself as Bella, she reached across and ran her fingertips lightly through it, careful not to catch any tangles.

Rosalie hated hugs—not because they were affectionate, but because they made her feel trapped. Out of control. But when Bella began dreaming, Rosalie wished, for the first time since the attack, that there was someone here to hold her. Someone to rest against for a while.

The thought troubled her, because it was a hope Rosalie had relinquished in the aftermath of the attack. Her nightmares, her panic attacks. Her infertility. She was loaded with enough baggage for a grand tour of Europe. More than any man should have to put up with, even if she could find a man she was willing to trust with all of it. And she couldn't. Never again.

She'd put this to bed ages ago. So why, watching Rope Chick dream, was the longing back? Why, when Bella cried out for Edward, did Rosalie slide over, curl up behind her and silently pet her hair until she once again fell into a quiet sleep? And why did she wake in the middle of the night with the strange certainty that Bella had done the same for her: stroking her hair and telling her it was just a dream?

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Jasper waited at the window, watching Alice pace and argue with Rosalie Hale. The instant she ended the call with a huff, Jasper snagged her phone. From what he'd gathered from Alice's side of the conversation, she would make no headway with the gallery owner tonight.

Alice whirled around and made a grab for it, so he put it out of reach, holding it overhead. "Damn it, Jasper, it's not funny."

Edward's news about Bella wasn't funny at all, but he still had to suppress a smile. Hurricane Alice was in the building, and it was good to see her. It had been far too long.

She glared at him, crossing her arms as if she'd given up only to make a leap, grabbing his bicep and hanging from it. This time he did laugh.

"Hold the phone there, darlin'." He reeled her in with his other arm, holding her close and planting a kiss behind her ear, squeezing her tighter than he should. She felt so good in his arms.

Alice stilled, and for a terrible second, Jasper was sure she'd pull away again. She'd been pulling away for months. Separate bedrooms, awkwardly skirting past him when he got too close, very polite conversation. He deserved worse, but it killed him a little each time.

To his surprise, she leaned her head back against his chest. "Still not funny, Jaz."

Jasper pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "I know, Ali."

"What is she thinking?" She was instantly agitated again, trying to move away, and though Jasper wanted nothing more than to hold her longer, he let her go. "How could she do … _that_?" She began pacing, her heels clicking on the wood floors of the great room, from where Jasper stood by the windows to Edward's piano and back again. Six steps there, six steps back. He could have touched her every time, and he wanted to, but he was quite sure she wouldn't want his hands on her when she heard what he had to say.

"Maybe it's not as bad as you think."

Alice planted her hands on her hips and almost shouted. "How can you say that? She was naked and tied up with ropes, for God's sake! Edward said she begs him to beat her!" She shuddered. "Begs!"

Fuck. Jasper wasn't overly inclined to remind Alice of why they were sleeping in separate beds, but it was relevant. "It's role playing, Alice."

Her face darkened and she seemed to shrink a little. "It's not the same thing." She didn't like the comparison, but he could see her mind working.

"No, it's not," he agreed. "But maybe it's not as different as you might think, either." She scowled at him, a sign that she wouldn't concede his point, but was willing to listen, so he pressed on before he lost his nerve. "It's about rules of engagement. Knowing where you stand."

Alice looked at him then, searching his eyes, and all he could do was look back and hope she was willing to understand. It was his truth, and if he'd learned anything from his weekly therapy sessions with Lauren Mallory, PhD, it was that he had to tell his truth—for himself as much as for Alice. His voice fell. "It's a lot easier when it's not _you_ out there."

"What are you scared of?" She was so quiet, so still. His answer here could define months and years to come. His lifetime, even.

"I used to think I was scared of everything—school, my job …" God, he didn't want to say it. "You."

Her eyes welled, but he couldn't go to her. Not until she let him.

"But since I've been talking with Lauren, I realized I'm really just scared of me." He hung his head and ran a hand through his hair, working up the nerve to say it. "When I'm Major Whitlock, I know where I stand. It doesn't matter if I fall off my horse. I'll still win at the Second Battle of Galveston. I'll still lose at Gettysburg. I can't fuck up anything important."

Alice looked stricken, both hands covering her nose and mouth. It was her "I won't cry" face.

"You have to admit, I'm a pretty consistent fuck-up."

"No." It was a whisper choked with emotion. And her eyes—God. Jasper hated himself for what he saw in her eyes until she threw herself into his arms, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "Never say that. That's what you're thinking when you run away from me."

He swayed with her, one arm tight around her waist, the other holding her head, her feet off the floor. She began to squirm and he reluctantly moved to set her down, but she shook her head as her shoes clunked to the floor. She wrapped her legs around one of his and held him even tighter. "Don't run away again, Jasper." She pulled her head back enough to fix her sad grey eyes on his. "Please."

It hurt to see Alice beg him. "Never." His voice was gruff and low. It made his words sound like the vow they were. "Never again."

When she buried her face in his neck again, he carried her to the couch and sat, gathering her into his arms. He silently breathed her in, committing everything to memory once again: her weight on his lap; the soft skin at her wrist; her sweet, feminine scent. And then she touched his face. His eyes swam so he closed them and took a shaky breath before turning into her hand and kissing her palm.

He couldn't help it. He took her face in both of his hands. "Do you know how much I love you, Mary Alice?"

She stared at him, all wide grey eyes and fear and longing, waiting. Did she really not know anymore? "So much, darlin'." He whispered it fiercely then pulled her closer, watching her watch him until her eyes closed. He pressed his lips gently to hers and she responded with a sigh of relief that made his heart stutter. He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and kissed her again, deeper and longer this time, then rested his forehead against hers. Her hands clung to his, holding them to her face, her breath shallow, her eyelids quivering.

At last she opened her eyes. She leaned in and gave him the briefest kiss. "As I love you." He tried to smile, but he could barely breathe. She still loved him. It was too much to hope for. "I think I loved you even before I knew you."

Her voice was quiet, almost hoarse, and she looked sad again. Why in hell did she have such faith in him? It made no sense. Except everything Alice did made sense eventually, if not at the moment. Whether he could trust himself or not was still open to question. But he trusted Alice the way he trusted that the sun rose in the east. She loved him, and every day that he muddled through his therapy homework or storyboarded the next scene of the Vampires on Wall Street game, and each time he didn't smoke a joint or call Maria or don his Confederate costume, it got a little easier to believe he could live up to her faith in him.

"I'm bringing her home, Jasper." Alice's head was tucked under his chin, one of her hands over his heart.

Jasper nodded his agreement and clasped her hand—it felt so good there. With his free hand, he awkwardly extracted her phone from his back pocket and entered Bella's number in her contacts. When he gave it to Alice, the screen still showed his handiwork. "Give her a call in the mornin'."

Alice nodded, and a tear fell onto Jasper's hand. "Thanks."

He whispered, "Anytime, darlin'," into her hair.

**A/N: The FandomsFighttheFloods compilation is out, featuring stories from some terrific writers including Sebastien Robichaud, HunterHunting, GothicTemptress, Morgan Locklear, SerendipitousMC and so many others. Even me. It's not too late! Contribute to Aussie flood relief by March 31, and you can receive the compilation. We're talking almost 2,000 pages of TwiFic! Make your donation today at: fandomsfightthefloods (dot) blogspot (dot) com.**

**AquariumJenn gave me an incredibly kind review on the IndieFicPimp blog. Thanks, lovely. If you're looking for reviews and recs, check out the site: indieficpimp (dot) blogspot (dot) com.**

**Some of the stories I'm currently following: **

**She Gives Me Religion by LizLemonBennett is wonderfully original, especially her Edward's honest and heartfelt relationship with God. **

**A Quiet Fire by magnolia822 features a Bella and Edward who were childhood friends on the brink of falling in love when separated by tragedy. They are reunited as grad students in Chicago. I love the literature and mystery in this fic.**

**Eye Candy by Whitlock-Masen posts 100-word chapters daily. Their prose is spare, efficient, and often moving. Their Jasper and Edward are … guh. So sexy. And then there's Odin.**

**Reviews make my day. I read and consider every one, and apologize for not responding to more of them. Last chapter, Edward hinted to me that he might take reviewers for a spin in Hair Shirt. I wonder if he's had any takers …**

**Visit the Release forum if you're interested in discussing the story. Or you can follow me on Twitter, writingbabe.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: With a nod to one of the bits of news in my A/N below, I reprise my original disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a mortgage, a golden retriever, a laptop and the scenario to this story.**

**My apologies for taking so long to write this chapter. Since it's been a while, here's a recap of Chapter 8:**_**Emmett McCarty, a reporter for the Wall Street Journal, catches a flight to Seattle, trying to track down Edward via information about his real estate holdings in Port Angeles. Rosalie takes Bella to her apartment after the art gallery debacle. There, Bella considers Edward's reaction to the shibari scene, with help from Rosalie and her switchblade, frees herself from Jacob's ropes. Rosalie soothes Bella's nightmares, which reawaken Rosalie's long-relinquished hope for love. Jacob leaves the gallery, hoping to enlist Paul to help him win Isabella's heart. And Alice and Jasper have a long-overdue conversation that ends with a kiss.**_

**Without further ado …**

**Chapter 9**

"Stop." Paul held up a hand and interrupted Jacob mid-sentence. When Jacob opened his mouth to argue, Paul silenced him with a glare. Jacob sat back, shifting his feet against Isabella's bags. As instructed, he'd retrieved her belongings from the room he'd booked for the night. He picked up his drink, swirling it in the glass without lifting it to his lips, and nodded his acquiescence without meeting Paul's eye. Though Jacob had never been a sub, he'd trained with Paul, the most highly respected Dom in Seattle. Paul's knowledge and respect in the community were unparalleled. Beyond that he was a friend, which is why Jacob had called him. Who else could help him?

"Let me play this back for you so I'm sure I understand." Paul straightened and took a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket. He unscrewed the cap, turned over the cardboard coaster intended for Jacob's drink, and began sketching elegant, interlocking shapes across one edge of the coaster. Jacob recognized the technique Paul was using to draw him in even as he fell under its spell.

When Paul came to the corner, he didn't turn the coaster and continue what Jacob assumed would be a border, but he did start to speak. "You placed your sub in your ropes and forbid her to speak. You conducted a scene with this sub in an environment you didn't control, and in front of people who didn't understand the rules of a scene." The pen began moving again, this time right to left, making the next row of shapes with an almost menacing speed and precision. "Your body and attention were so far removed from the scene that she was approached and even touched without your knowledge or protection." The row filled in quickly now, though the shapes never lost their precision. Jacob wanted to protest—that wasn't how it happened, at least not how he planned it—but it was as if the shapes themselves forbid it.

"When you discovered this had happened, you lost control of your temper both with your sub and the person who touched her." Paul finally looked at Jacob, and Jacob felt the relief he knew his subs experienced after he'd refused to look at them when disappointed. He also knew what came next: the final indictment. "And when you had already betrayed your sub's trust in the most serious ways possible, you decided to tell her you were in love with her?" Paul's pen stopped and he leaned forward across the table, encroaching on Jacob's personal space. Jacob was already sitting back in the booth; he couldn't lean any farther away, and it would have been stupid to try. "Could you, do you think, have done anything else to more thoroughly abandon your responsibility as her Dom? What. Were. You. Thinking?"

Jacob opened his mouth to argue despite the obvious rhetorical nature of the question. It hadn't been like that. It would have worked exactly as he'd planned if Edward hadn't been there. Edward Cullen, the man she cried out for in her sleep. The man who had hurt her in ways Jacob was sure he alone could heal.

But one look at Paul and Jacob nodded, agreeing to Paul's summary, and feeling for the first time just how deeply he'd blown it. Until now, he'd been focused on his feelings, not on how far he'd crossed the line with Isabella. "How do I fix this?"

Paul sat back and screwed the cap onto his pen. "How many of your D/s relationships ended because your sub wanted you to be her boyfriend?"

Jacob swallowed hard. "Two." But those relationships would never have worked. He knew how good he and Isabella could be together. Knew. It was in his bones, and in the Isabella sculpture. Every curve, every smooth surface. A perfect balance.

"It works the other way, too, Jacob. You know this. Being the Dom doesn't mean you get to change the rules in the middle of your relationship."

"But I know I can help her. If she'd just—"

Paul shook his head. "You don't get to _help_ her or _fix_ her unless she wants you to. Isabella sets her terms. That's what limits are for."

Jacob shifted in his seat. Everything Paul said was true. So why did it seem so wrong? "I could help her get over him if she would just try. She just has to let me."

"As a Dom, I can tell you that's not going to happen. You've been with Isabella quite a while. If she was looking for love, you'd already know it." Then Paul's mouth curved into a sad half smile. "As your friend, I can only say, don't do it, man. You'll break your own heart trying."

Silence fell. Jacob couldn't agree not to try, but Paul's words were changing the hue of the happiness Jacob had previously envisioned. The picture was slipping away, lost in gray and shadow.

"Did you bring her things?"

Jacob met Paul's eyes and nodded. On the phone, Paul had insisted that he would deliver Isabella's bags to the gallery and that Jacob should return to Seattle without seeing her. It was too soon, and the gallery space was too clearly a D/s scene for her. If and when they met again, Paul had advised, it should be on neutral ground.

If.

He reached under the table and put the bags in the aisle beside their booth. They were the bags she always brought to his house on weekends: her computer bag and a small overnight case. He wanted to open the overnighter and press his face into her clothes, gather up her scent, just in case.

Paul clapped a hand on Jacob's shoulder, and when Jacob met his eyes, they were full of sympathy.

Jacob nodded. "Thanks, man." He watched as Paul shouldered her bags.

When they were outside, they shook hands, and Jacob turned toward his car.

"Jacob?" He turned to find Paul striding toward him. "No scenes. Not with Isabella or anyone else until you get a handle on this."

Jacob's shoulders sagged. How could he get a handle on love?

"I mean it, Jacob. I want you to talk to me before you dive back in. Understood?"

"Understood." That wasn't actually true. Jacob didn't understand how the night could have gone so wrong, how his instincts failed him so completely. How little an effect his declaration had on Isabella.

Paul seemed to size him up, and it made Jacob squirm. Paul was several inches shorter than Jacob, but exuded authority. "You'll be all right, Jake. The right woman is out there somewhere."

Until Isabella, Jacob hadn't been too concerned about finding the right woman. He'd believed she was out there, and that when he found her, they'd be complete in each other. But Isabella was the right woman, and finding her left him aching and empty. She wouldn't let him in. To his horror, tears welled in Jacob's eyes. He choked out, "Sure, sure," and turned away, making a hasty retreat to his car.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

The morning was dazzling as Edward backed into the Cullen garage and closed the door. He'd driven all night, winding through half the back roads on the Olympic Peninsula, and he was weary beyond anything he'd experienced before. Weary and soul-sick every time he thought of Bella. Her beautiful eyes so full of pride and something else, something darker, as she told him how she begged to be whipped.

It would be so easy. Just leave the car running and close his eyes. Alice's Porsche was gone—she must already be on her way to Port Angeles, to Bella. No one would open the garage door for hours.

He must have dozed for a moment because the slam of fists on Hair Shirt's hood made him jump and yell.

Jasper stood at the front bumper, slashing his hand at his throat in the "cut it" gesture. Edward killed the engine and let his head fall back against the headrest. The car door opened and Jasper said, "Let's go." Oddly, he sounded like law enforcement. Edward wondered if Jasper's Confederacy had military police.

With a hand clapped on his shoulder, Jasper steered him through the back door and into the kitchen. "Sit."

"I'm too tired for this, Jasper." Nevertheless, Edward slumped onto a stool at the island and watched, perplexed, as his brother in law clicked on a burner and scrambled eggs that were already cracked into a bowl. Since when did Jasper cook?

Jasper swirled butter around the pan like he'd been doing it all his life then poured in the eggs. Without looking up from the stove, and with an even, authoritative delivery, Jasper said, "I'm gonna tell you what I told Alice. It's not as bad as it looks."

Edward shoved away from the counter so fast the stool clattered to the floor behind him. "You have no idea, Jasper. No fucking clue." He refrained from adding _as usual_. Jasper eyed him so carefully that Edward wondered if he did know something after all. "What?"

"Keep telling yourself that, Edward." He stirred the eggs and tipped his head toward a loaf of bread. "Put in some toast. Two for me."

He'd been exhausted as he walked into the house. Now Edward was just pissed off. "I told you I'm not hungry."

"Bullshit. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again—" Jasper waved the spatula in the direction of the garage "—I _will_ tell Alice."

Edward jabbed at the controls for the toaster. "Just fuck off, Jasper. Like I said, you don't have a fucking clue." He kept his eyes trained on the bread. It was a $200 toaster and still burned things if you didn't watch it.

_Thwack!_ Edward ducked his head just as Jasper swung again and hissed, "One fucking mistake, asshole. _One_." Jasper had apparently left the spatula in the pan with the eggs; he was wielding a wooden spoon, and as ever, when Jasper went from Southern Slow to lightening quick, Edward was caught flatfooted. That Texas drawl still threw off his radar. "We used to be best friends." Jasper feinted left, but this time Edward anticipated his move. Still, Jasper landed a sound smack on Edward's back—a stinging kidney shot, the fucker—and was back at the frying pan stirring eggs before Edward could come up with anything. He sure as hell wouldn't resort to throwing coffee cups or flatware, and that was all he could reach. Except the toast, which was a hair's breadth from burned thanks to Jasper's bullshit.

"And I know more than you ever give me credit for." Jasper shoved Edward out of the way, rescued the toast and plated the food while Edward stood rubbing his injuries.

"Yeah, I can see that. You've got all the answers. Happy marriage, thriving career. It's impressive." Edward knew he was being an ass, but he couldn't stop himself.

Jasper kept his head down for a moment, then held out a plate to Edward as if it were a peace offering. But he pulled it back when Edward reached for it, setting it where Edward had been seated earlier. "Sit down and eat." When Edward didn't move, Jasper pointed the spatula. "Sit. Down."

Edward snapped a sarcastic salute. "Yes, Major."

"Really? That's the way you want to play this?" Jasper leaned with both hands on the counter, his eyes apparently on the stove. Edward watched his jaw tick. He had been kidding, sort of, but it appeared he'd landed a much heavier punch than he intended.

He sat.

They ate in a silence broken only by forks clinking against plates. By the time he was finished, Edward felt like an asshole. Jasper was his friend. But the gulf of resentment had grown wide since the awful day ten years ago when he discovered Jasper had used his computer—and trust fund account—to procure weed. Doing so had inadvertently violated the terms of Edward's détente with Eleazar and set in motion a chain reaction that still hadn't played itself out. It was only a matter of time before the final dominoes fell. Sometimes Edward felt as if he had been holding his breath since Bella's eighteenth birthday.

Still, Jasper had meant no harm, and hadn't escaped unscathed. Edward had watched his near collapse after Southern Vampire Wars, something he'd done almost as a confirmation of his uselessness in the wake of an incomplete history PhD, met with overwhelming success. He'd seen Jasper and Alice, perhaps the most perfectly suited couple he'd ever known, struggle when Jasper's guilt and self-doubt got the best of him. He still didn't know exactly what had happened this time—Alice was utterly silent on the subject—but it was clearly a watershed. And Jasper made no secret of the fact that he was now seeing a shrink.

Edward reached for Jasper's empty plate. "Thanks for breakfast."

Jasper nodded once but didn't look at him.

"I'm sorry, man." Edward _was_ sorry. It wasn't fair to blame Jasper. He might have been the catalyst, but the avalanche itself had absolutely nothing to do with Jasper.

Jasper shrugged. "You love her, and sometimes that shit hurts."

"God, I just—" How could he even describe it to Jasper? Bella's naked body, tied and whipped— Edward shuddered. "Did I do that to her?" The thought had tormented him all night.

"Nope." Jasper sounded so certain that Edward stopped in his tracks. "Bella made that choice all on her own."

"Rosalie said that bastard brought her in on a leash." The image of his Bella with a dog collar around her neck shuffling behind that so-called artist was so abhorrent, Edward had to clutch the counter to steady himself. "Why would she choose _that_?"

"It's decaf." Jasper handed him a cup of coffee and led him to the sofa. Edward sat carefully. He was so tired, but there would be no rest. Really, there never was.

"Why, Jaz?"

Jasper eyed him carefully, as he had earlier in the kitchen, and Edward realized: Jasper had spoken with Bella. He was weighing how much to tell him.

"Just say it. Please."

He watched in frustration as Jasper set down his coffee and crossed the room, removing a leather case from a shelf. Jasper then sat across from him, placed a game board on the table and began removing pieces from the case. He didn't look up or answer Edward until the board was set and he'd made his opening move, king's pawn to e4. "She's scared. So she's only risking the expendable stuff." Jasper paused and Edward thought of her hair, her body. The delicate mole he'd recognized in the photograph. Nothing about Bella was expendable. Jasper pointed to the queen. "That's how you protect the most important piece."

It was too hard to look at Jasper now. Edward trained his eyes on the board. He made his move and sat back, waiting.

Pointing to the pawn Edward had just moved, Jasper asked, "So. Are you trying to win, or trying not to lose?"

Edward looked up. "What do you mean?"

Jasper picked up his queen and rolled it between his palms then met Edward's eyes. "I think she's trying not to lose."

"Not everything is war games, Jasper."

"That's right." Jasper watched him, and Edward could tell he was waiting for him to make the connection. But he was so tired, and nothing made sense. At last, with the faintest of smiles, Jasper said, "Sometimes it's about love."

"You think she loves him?" Edward could hardly choke out the words. How could he smile about that?

"Nope." Again, quick and decisive. Then Jasper got up to pace. The sun had come around enough that light poured in through the windows. Bathed in sunlight, Jasper looked young—the way Edward remembered him from the heyday of their friendship—and purposeful.

"You're sure?" As angry as Edward had been with Jasper over the years, as much as he'd wanted to write him off completely, he never could discount Jasper's ability to read people. Now it was a lifeline.

"Unequivocally." Jasper spun and threw something—threw it hard, right at him.

Edward caught it on pure reflex and opened his hand. The queen. The most important piece. 

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

When Bella heard the shower start in the en suite, she rose and found the apartment's other bathroom. She was deeply grateful for Rosalie's help, but also deeply mortified to wake up in her bed. After freshening up, she hurried to the kitchen, determined to have coffee and breakfast ready when Rosalie emerged. It was the least she could do.

She worked as quickly and quietly as she could, feeling a bit like a thief as she peeked into drawers and cupboards to find what she needed. She hoped Rosalie would overlook the intrusion if a plate of hot food awaited her.

Bella was just dotting a stack of French toast with blueberries and sliced strawberries when Rosalie appeared, a vision in dark, slim jeans and a creamy, tissue-thin turtleneck. She looked so taken aback at the scene before her that Bella couldn't help smiling. She beckoned her to the table. "Everything's ready, just have a seat." Rosalie's face clouded for a moment, but she sat at the place Bella had set for her. Bella placed a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of French toast before her. "The syrup is warm." Bella nudged a small bowl with a soup spoon in it, and Rosalie looked up at her in slight amazement.

"You didn't have to do this." Rosalie's voice was rough. From the look on her face, Bella realized it wasn't from sleep. Maybe it had been a while since someone cooked for her.

"And you didn't have to let me stay here last night. Thank you." Bella turned away as her own voice wavered. She poured herself coffee and fixed her plate slowly, working to subdue the emotions that were suddenly at the surface. She wanted very badly not to cry in front of Rosalie. It seemed essential somehow if she wished to gain Rosalie's respect. And Bella did want that. She felt a rare affinity with Rosalie and wanted to be friends.

It had been years since Bella wanted to make a new friend. Usually she fell into friendships, swept along by whatever circumstance put her in proximity.

In Rosalie, Bella recognized a kindred spirit, a term she hadn't thought about in a long time. Anne of Green Gables had been a girlhood favorite, and she remembered finally understanding Anne's sentiment toward her "bosom friend" Diana when she first met Alice.

When Bella had sufficiently collected herself, she took her plate and coffee and sat. Rosalie touched the side of the syrup bowl as if checking that it was still warm and murmured, "My mom used to do that." Bella was drizzling syrup over her French toast when Rosalie cleared her throat and asked, "Do you have somewhere to go? Someone you can stay with?"

Bella shook her head. "I'll be okay. I'll just go home."

Rosalie stilled. "You're going back to him?"

"No, I'll go home. To my house."

"You have a house? You don't—I mean, you're not—"

Light dawned and Bella hurried to reassure her, even as the blush crept up her face and down her chest. "It's not like that. Jacob and I don't live together."

When Rosalie looked down at her plate and kept her eyes there as she pushed a blueberry around with her fork, Bella attempted to explain. "I only stay with him on weekends. During the week, I live at my house."

"You have your own money and everything? You don't have to—"

Bella bristled. "I'm not a hooker, Rosalie. I'm an English professor."

After a short burst of laughter, Rosalie sobered. "Then why do you let him …" She trailed off looking faintly ill and more than a little afraid.

Something life-altering had happened to Rosalie, though she didn't know what. No sane person kept a switch blade in their high-heeled boot, and as far as Bella could tell, Rosalie was one of the sanest people she'd ever met: alert, engaged, hyperaware. She didn't miss anything. And she clearly thought what Bella did with Jacob wasn't sane. Bella thought about giving her the standard answer about how the lifestyle helped partners meet each other's needs, and no needs were wrong. But she knew Rosalie would call bullshit. She wanted to know why Bella did it, and that answer wasn't noble.

"We have rules, Rosalie. He doesn't do anything to me that I haven't said I was willing to do." Rosalie opened her mouth to object, but Bella continued because that wasn't really an answer to her question. "I do it because when we're together like that, I'm all there." She struggled for the right words. "I can't be anywhere else: not off in my head, not worried about next week's department meeting or sad about my dad dying. I have to focus. There isn't room in my head for anything but _here_ and _now_."

Rosalie's head was cocked as she listened, which made her seem skeptical. Still, after a pause, she said, "So it's how you escape."

That wasn't exactly right. "More like temporarily lulling the demons to sleep."

"Demons." Rosalie had latched onto the operative word, nodding with a kind of recognition that made Bella automatically reach for Rosalie's hand. Rosalie pulled it away and ran it through her hair. "So Cullen is one of your demons?"

Edward. Bella had focused carefully on preparing breakfast, pushing back thoughts of last night and Edward. But there was no avoiding him. Ever since Alice showed up at Charlie's door, the Cullens had once again pervaded her consciousness.

Still, what could she say? Surely her humiliation at Jacob's hands was enough to earn Rosalie's disrespect. How could she explain about Edward and Alice and Tanya? "We knew each other growing up."

After a lingering silence during which Rosalie took her time finishing her coffee, Rosalie said, "He's in love with you."

Bella's chest seemed to lock—she couldn't breathe out or in, and she certainly couldn't answer. Why did people keep saying that? At last, she managed, "It wasn't like that. Not for him, at least."

Rosalie shook her head and frowned. "Men only cry over women they love."

Of course Rosalie felt sorry for him. He was so beautiful, even in his sorrow. Rosalie was beautiful, too. She probably had no idea what it was like to be average. How it didn't get you an ounce of unearned sympathy. "An hour after he told me he'd love me forever, Tanya ran into his arms and he kissed her like she was … everything. I was right there—he was practically still holding my hand." The words seized her throat, which grew tight. She cleared it and continued. "Maybe he's just sorry he hurt me." She managed to keep her voice steady as tears slipped down her cheeks. It was almost like crying when she was with Jacob. Resistance was pointless. She didn't choke and sob when she was in the playroom because she wasn't fighting against the tears. They released themselves and fell like welcome rain as she stood bound to the St. John's cross and the cane landed again and again. Jacob preferred ropes and restraints to canes and whips, but he gave her what she needed, and it was always sweet relief when he did. Jacob was good to her that way: he understood the crucial difference between tears and a safeword.

"Tanya? The Tanya he was with in New York?"

Bella shrugged. It had to be, but she'd made a point of not knowing what was happening with Edward. She couldn't avoid news of Alice entirely, but it was easier with Edward. She was never drawn to the society pages, and until recently she had no interest in high finance beyond her annual visit to her financial planner to balance her small but growing retirement fund. The largest sum of money she'd likely ever get in one lump sum she'd gladly give back for even one more day with Charlie.

"Bella, look at me." Rosalie was still at the sink and Bella turned to her without reserve since she wasn't hiding these tears. She watched Rosalie appraise her face. Rosalie clearly wasn't the gushing, heart-on-her-sleeve type, but there was a hard sort of compassion about her. "I knew them back there. Not well, but well enough." She paused, seeming to consider her next words carefully. "I never once saw him happy."

"No!" It was an appalled whisper. Bella couldn't help it. The thought of Edward happy had been a torment, but also a consolation. The thought of him unhappy all this time? It was unbearable. Why would he choose unhappiness? "She was beautiful. They looked perfect together." What Tanya had told her in the meadow was true: she belonged in Edward's world. After months of wondering why Edward abandoned her, Tanya had helped her understand. She'd clung to that truth, and it eventually led her to Jacob's playroom.

"For Page Six maybe, but when the cameras weren't on them, he was … resigned."

"There's no way he stuck with Tanya since his senior year in high school because he was resigned. There had to be something there." Ten years was a long time. A lifetime.

Rosalie yanked open a drawer and shoved its contents about. With no small amount of triumph, she pulled out a lighter. A takeout menu floated to the floor as she continued her foraging. At last, she shoved the drawer shut with a growl. "Remind me why the hell I gave up smoking?" When she finally looked at Bella again, she sighed and dragged both hands through her glorious honey-colored hair. "I couldn't begin to tell you why, but I know what I saw—in New York and last night. You should talk to him."

It was never going to happen, so it was easy to say, "I'll think about it." Edward had disappeared from her life. When he returned to Forks, he hadn't tried to contact her, even when he knew Charlie was dying. He didn't want anything to do with her, but she wouldn't argue with Rosalie. Not after her kindness.

Rosalie smirked, but it wasn't with humor. "Won't that just land you back on a dog leash?"

Bella's whole body flushed. "After last night, I doubt Jacob would have me back even if I wanted to."

"Do you want to?"

Bella had no doubt: she didn't love Jacob. But could she say she didn't want what he gave her in his playroom? Part of her still yearned toward those timeless moments of release. Or as Rosalie had put it, escape.

It was true: she was still running away. Running from memories of Edward Cullen.

Rosalie's clear blue gaze brooked no avoidance, so Bella said the only thing she could. "I don't know." 

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

For perhaps the first time in her life, Alice drove in silence. She would arrive in Port Angeles hours before her appointment to meet Rosalie at the gallery, which satisfied her need to stay on top of the situation. She'd get coffee, something to eat and execute her plan, which she'd named Homeward Bound because she couldn't think of anything less cheesy. Too bad Jasper wasn't with her: he had the knack for names. She scrolled through her contacts and put the call on the car's speakers. "Jenks, what's taking so long?" He'd had more than an hour already.

"Ms. Cullen-Whitlock!" As usual, Jenks sounded slightly panicked. "Ah, yes. I was just about to text you, as per your instructions."

"You found it?"

"Of course." Jenks cleared his throat. "Indeed. Ahhh…"

"Spit it out, Jenks."

"I have the addresses and I've taken the liberty of creating GPS routes to both locations from the Hale Gallery."

If she weren't driving, Alice would have executed some sort of ninja victory maneuver. She settled for bouncing in her seat. "Excellent! Make sure you bill accordingly."

"Ms. Cullen-Whitlock, I would never—"

"Yes, you would, Jenks. And you should, you darling man." She could picture him, rumpled and unhealthy. He was a heart attack waiting to happen. "Oatmeal, Jenks. Don't forget. It's good for your cholesterol."

She disconnected before he could respond and heaved a sigh of relief. In moments, she would have Rosalie Hale's home address as well as Jacob Black's. If Rosalie told Bella she was coming, Alice would be ready. She had a plan and a backup because she was out of patience. She wasn't giving Bella a choice.

In silence, and with one eye on the road, Alice read the texts from Jenks. After collecting coffee and pastry, she took up her grim surveillance from a parking space across the street from Rosalie Hale's apartment. And when, an hour and forty-two minutes later—not that she was counting—the two emerged from the building and got into Rosalie's car, Alice followed them as surreptitiously as a canary yellow Porsche allowed. 

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

If it had been anything but a canary yellow Porsche following her, Rosalie knew she'd be in a full-blown panic. But since it was, Rosalie settled on pissed off. It figured that Alice Cullen-Whitlock had access to things like addresses intentionally kept secret, but that didn't mean Rosalie had to like it. At least Alice knew her history: she wouldn't be likely to share what she knew with anyone connected to Royce.

She hadn't told Bella about last night's phone calls, and since Alice would be joining them momentarily, she thought she'd better break the ice. "Your friend's behind us."

"Jacob?" Bella blanched as she ducked in her seat and glanced in the side-view mirror.

Rosalie scowled. "Alice Cullen. She called last night. She said you're her best friend. She said she wants to drive you home."

Bella sat up fast and twisted around in her seat, and for the first time in Rosalie's experience, looked angry as hell. "She what?"

"You're not besties?" Rosalie was a hair's breadth from exasperated. English professor? Rope Chick was a one-woman soap opera.

"She and her brother dumped me the same day. Until Charlie died, we hadn't spoken in ten years."

"Charlie?" Rosalie braced herself for the next woeful boyfriend story.

"My dad."

Shit. "I'm sorry."

Bella nodded, but quickly turned back to glance at the car behind them. "She'll probably talk my ear off all the way back to Seattle." When Bella settled back into her seat her face seemed to harden. "Maybe if I play along she'll get bored again and ..." She trailed off with a shake of her head. "It doesn't matter."

Rosalie sighed. She'd be at least as bitter as Bella in the same situation, and it wasn't her concern—Rosalie studiously avoided butting into other people's business. But she knew better than anyone how things weren't always what they appeared. If it slipped her mind, a quick glance in the mirror was all the reminder she needed. She bore the proof on her body.

Royce had looked good on paper. And from Bella's account, Edward and Alice looked utterly heartless. But Rosalie felt in her gut—a gut she now listened to—that there was more to their story. And with Edward she had first-hand experience. He was a guy with no good reason to help her, but he had. The odds were nearly impossible, but hope like this, hope for reconciliation, perhaps even love, didn't come around often in this life. Certainly it would never come her way. But Rosalie hoped, with a ferocity she didn't fully understand, that such a possibility was before Bella now. Or behind her, really. In that damned Porsche. What was it with the Cullens and their cars? "I think you should give her a chance." Rosalie snuck a glance at Bella, whose hair now hung like a curtain between them. "Give him a chance, too. Edward is a better man than you believe."

She hoped she hadn't made Bella cry. She suspected Bella hated being seen in tears about as much as she did. But Rosalie only had a moment to consider this because as she pulled into the gallery's parking lot, it appeared she already had a customer. A man she didn't recognize stood leaning against his car, doing something with his phone.

Bella was out of the car in a flash, her voice surprisingly even as she said, "Paul? Is he all right?"

Rosalie stepped out of the car as Alice sprinted by her in a blur best described as designer ninja.

Pissed-off designer ninja.

"Don't you touch her! How dare you put a leash on another human being? If you so much as—"

Another outcome of her attack: Rosalie was fast. It came from all the running. She had no patience for meditation or the lame-ass "creative visualizations" a therapist once recommended, but time on a treadmill calmed her nerves. She sprang forward and grabbed the back of Alice's black outfit just as she was about to jab a manicured finger into Paul's chest to emphasize her point. It wasn't easy—for someone so small, she was surprisingly scrappy—but she managed to drag Alice, who was ranting and pulling toward Paul with all of her might, back to the Porsche. "Easy, killer. That's not Jacob."

"How can you— Let go of— What?" Rosalie released her abruptly and Alice staggered before righting herself. It was enough to allow Rosalie to position herself between Alice and the man in question in case Alice went after him again.

"I said he's not Jacob. I've never seen the guy before, but Bella seems to know him."

"Then how do you know he won't—"

"I don't," Rosalie snapped. "But Bella obviously wants to talk to him, and I doubt she'd appreciate you taking a swing at him. Besides, what can he do with both of us here?"

"Fine." Alice looked disgruntled but resigned as she plucked at her outfit, apparently setting it to rights. The fabric settled on her exactly as it had draped before—it had great drape—but Alice seemed better satisfied, and after one more round of smoothing she held out her hand. "Sorry about that. Obviously you're Rosalie Hale. I'm Alice Cullen-Whitlock."

Rosalie suppressed a smirk and shook it. "I gathered that."

"I can't help it, the thought of that … I don't even want to say _man_ because what kind of man does something like—" She waved her hands around, again looking rather ninja-like, and Rosalie cracked a smile.

"Yeah, I kept hoping she'd deck him or something." She turned to Alice, and her smile faded. "Listen, you weren't honest with me last night. Bella was pretty upset when I told her you were driving her home."

Alice hung her head. "She _is_ my best friend. She just has no reason to believe it's true."

Rosalie nodded. "I told her to give you and your brother a chance." Alice's head popped up and she opened her mouth, but Rosalie continued. "Edward has been very good to me, even though he had no reason to be. And I saw them last night—there's a connection." Alice nodded, her eyes glittering, and Rose brought her point home. "But I've got Bella's back now, so don't hurt her. She's _my_ friend, too." She surprised herself: Rosalie didn't make friends easily or often, and it was usually a protracted process. But 24 hours had cemented a connection with Bella. They may not always agree, but the bond was undeniable. 

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Bella kept her eyes glued on Paul while Rosalie dragged Alice away. He drew a deep breath and finally looked at her. "He's fine. But we thought it was best that I bring your things. You both need some time to think."

"What did he tell you?" Bella's heart sank and her cheeks colored as she considered the night from Jacob's perspective.

"Enough to make it clear that he did some pretty ill-advised things last night." Bella opened her mouth to protest, not wanting Jacob to be in trouble with Paul. She knew how much Jacob admired and respected him. "And that you two seem to have differing hopes for this relationship."

"Oh."

"I said this to Jacob, and I'm saying it to you." He paused until she nodded. "No play unless or until you two reach an agreement about your future."

"Of course." Bella expected nothing less, but the finality of Paul's words made her suddenly solemn. It was over, really, except for admitting it to themselves and each other. That would be a painful conversation, ending in goodbye. "You'll take care of him?"

Paul nodded. "Of course. I'll check on him in a few days." He touched her shoulder. "You did nothing wrong, you know that, right?"

"I hurt him."

"He didn't really give you a chance not to, did he?"

Bella looked for a way around that one, but finally had to concede. "I guess not." Technically, Paul was right. Jacob had changed the rules. But Bella had seen his feelings change and stayed any. Stayed because she needed what he offered. She'd used Jacob, and that was unforgivable.

"He's not in trouble, Bella. But he didn't take care of his sub first last night. That's his most important job as a Dom. I'm sorry it happened, and Jacob is, too."

"Thanks." It came out choked, but Paul drew her into a brief hug.

"He's going to be okay, Bella." He glanced behind her and Bella turned to look at Alice and Rosalie, who were, oddly, arm in arm as they watched them from the Porsche. A united front. She turned back to Paul, and he held her gaze like a Dom giving an order. "He will, and so will you."

He was barely in the car before Alice was at her side, tugging her arm. "C'mon. It's time to go."

Bella looked to Rosalie, who was stowing Bella's bags. Rosalie nodded. "It's time."

Bella launched herself at the blonde, wrapping her in a fierce hug. "Thanks, Rose. For everything."

She heard the tears in Rosalie's voice when she said, "Shut up." They separated but Rosalie held her gaze. "You call me, Rope Chick. Anytime." The way she tilted her head on the last word made it clear to Bella: day or night. A mile or a world away. It wouldn't matter. Rosalie would be there for her.

"You too, yeah?"

Rosalie nodded, backing away. "Gotta go. Gallery to run, art to sell, people to boss …"

Bella snorted, half laughter, half tears.

Rosalie lifted a hand, then turned away and entered the gallery.

Bella opened the passenger door and took her seat, brushing away unshed tears.

In uncharacteristic silence, Alice started the car and wound through town. Bella settled back against the head rest and closed her eyes, unable to break the silence, unsure if anything could.

When she opened them again, they were well outside of Port Angeles, winding through forest past familiar turnoffs and signs. Toward Forks. Bella clutched at Alice's arm. "Alice, turn around."

Alice shook her off and glared at her. "No. I meant what I said. I'm taking you _home_."

…

…

…

**A/N: Someone very kind has nominated Release and its author for some awards. *curtsies to the nominator(s)* Voting is currently underway for the Sunflower Awards. Cast your vote now for your favorite stories and authors at thesunflowerawards (.) blogspot (.) com. And voting opens on May 22 for the Avant Garde Awards, avantgardawards (.) com**

**Thank you for all of the kind and encouraging reviews. And please forgive me for being #reviewreplyfail. I find myself rather tongue-tied these days. Thanks for understanding.**

**My beta Serendipitous, aka MeilleurCafe, and my prereader Isabeausink have helped me with so much more than writing. I love you both. xo **

**I've been told my A/Ns are too long and boring, so I'll save my story recs for the forum. Thanks again for reading Release.**


	10. Chapter 10

**It's been far too long since I updated Release. My apologies to all of you who have been kind enough to stick around. I _will_ finish this story, that's a promise. My beta MellieurCafe (aka SerendipitousMC) and prereader Isabeausink have upheld me in much more than this, and saved me from my own stupidity this chapter. They're the best. Simply the best.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a mortgage, a golden retriever, a laptop with an unreliable "w" key and the scenario to this story.**

**In chapter 9: _Jacob seeks help from his mentor to "fix" things with Bella, but Paul reminds him that loving him isn't in Bella's contract. He has to accept that she doesn't want to be his girlfriend. Jasper smacks Edward with a wooden spoon while cooking him breakfast and schooling him on the rules of engagement in the game of love. Bella and Rosalie have pointed conversation over breakfast, and Rosalie advises her to give Edward a chance. Alice tries her ninja moves on Paul in the parking lot of the Hale Gallery, mistaking him for Jacob. Rosalie and Alice meet when Rosalie drags a sputtering and swinging Alice away from Paul so Bella can talk with him. And Alice gets Bella into her Porsche with an offer to take her home. But she heads toward Forks instead of Seattle._**

**Chapter 10**

How such a wide gulf could exist between two people in such a tiny car was beyond Alice.

After a brief but fierce argument about turning around and taking Bella to Seattle, Bella had stilled, not speaking, not even shifting in her seat. It wasn't a peaceful stillness. She seemed coiled, clutching the door handle in a way that made Alice grateful that the locks engaged when the Porsche was in gear.

Alice tried waiting Bella out. She tried coaxing—she was a master at coaxing, wheedling and other methods of cracking the reluctant.

Still, Bella remained silent.

Worse, Alice sensed that Bella wasn't merely being stubborn. She seemed stuck, like a full bottle of ketchup that simply wouldn't pour. Not that Alice ate ketchup, but Jasper did. She'd seen him resort to easing a knife down the inside of the bottle to release the flood.

Clearly, that wasn't an option with Bella.

The forest flew by in a silence so oppressive, Alice was tempted to roll down the windows and scream again. But she couldn't think of a single Pink lyric that suited this situation.

At last, as the miles compounded her desperation, Alice realized she had only one option: the scariest one of all. It took another mile or two of silence for Alice to force the words out. "Jasper and I are separated."

Bella snorted. "Since when, yesterday?" Her tone was acid, something Alice was typically impervious to, but now tears welled.

"He cheated on me." The words wobbled, and Alice couldn't believe how much it hurt to say them. Alice had never said them aloud. Never really let herself call it what it was. She'd always couched it in terms that kept the blame from both Jasper and herself. Tears dripped off her chin as the car passed over a bumpy section of road.

The admission hurt so profoundly that Alice almost forgot Bella was there until she asked, "Why are you telling me this?" She sounded wary, and Alice knew she had earned that wariness, which made it hurt even more.

"Because you're my best friend. My only real friend." Alice tried to breathe normally and steady her voice, but it didn't work, in part because Bella began emphatically shaking her head the moment Alice opened her mouth.

"We aren't friends, Alice. I haven't seen or heard from you in ten years!" Bella threw her hands up, as if at a loss to more fully express how very _not friends_ they were. "And back then, I didn't know you at all. It was more like I was friends with a girl you helped me imagine. A mirage." Bella managed a grim smile. "You'd think that coming from the desert, I wouldn't have fallen for that."

They both flew against their seatbelts as Alice pounded the brakes, sending the car into a terrifying, though probably highly cinematic, skid. They came to a graceful halt amid a cloud of dust as the gravel settled back to the shoulder of the road. "Stop saying things like that!" Alice yelled. "It. Was. Real, Bella."

Then Alice sobbed. There was no soothing hand, no hug, no murmur of comfort from the passenger seat. Alice had never felt so alone in her life. When she'd cried herself out, Alice wiped her eyes, checked her mirror then pulled onto the highway again.

Bella's instinct to comfort Alice warred with bitterness that Alice would seek her out now. Despite her claims, Alice wasn't here to make amends. She wanted something from Bella. Though Alice's tears were clearly heartfelt, she felt manipulated once again, unable to understand motivations and unwilling to be duped a second time.

"Edward said Rosalie told him that that … _man_ … brought you in on a leash."

Bella almost laughed: Alice had found her angry voice.

"Yes, he did."

"Why, Bella?" Alice sounded just like somebody's mother. In fact, the ever-condescending Esme couldn't have done a better job of trying to make her feel her sins. It made Bella rebellious. "Because it turns me on."

"Bullshit." Okay, maybe not Esme, who would never have sworn. At least not before those below her station. She'd always been kind to Bella, if distant, when she was just friends with Alice. But when she started dating Edward, Esme's frosty patrician superiority never receded. She wondered if Alice realized who she sounded like.

So Bella laughed. "It does. Really."

"But that's not why."

She hadn't seen that one coming. Bella looked out her window at the passing trees, which were somehow familiar. How was it possible she was here, in a car with Alice, speeding toward the town she'd hoped never to see again? As quickly as her glibness had arrived, it abandoned her. There were no words that wouldn't stick in her throat.

"Do you love him?" Alice's disapproving tone implied she already knew the answer, so Bella gave it.

"No."

To her surprise, Alice seemed horrified. Perhaps not that she didn't love Jacob, but that she _knew_ she didn't love him. Bella wondered if the leash would bother Alice so much if she were head over heels for Jacob. _Anything for love? _Bella suppressed a snort. She'd made that mistake ten years ago.

"Does he love you?" Alice pressed.

"It doesn't matter." Of course it did, but she wouldn't be confiding that to Alice anytime soon. Bella kept her secrets to herself now.

"Love always matters, Bella. I think I learned that from you."

Bella was at a loss: she'd never said anything of the sort to Alice, not that she could remember anyway. And if she had, it would have been the naïve chatter of a lovestruck seventeen year old. It was hard not to sneer at the memory of herself in the throes of her one-sided love. Not exactly a credible source for words to live by. The shame at being deceived made her cheeks burn even now.

"When I told Jasper I wanted to have a baby, he left me." The words were so quiet, they hardly seemed to come from Alice. They were like a thought, a regret given voice. "He came back to Seattle. To work on the sequel, but that's not what happened. He just ..." Suddenly, Alice seemed to need all of her concentration on the road, though it was utterly familiar now. They were passing through Forks. "When I showed up at his apartment, he was inches from consummating things with Maria."

Bella couldn't help it. Her eyes welled. She knew what seeing that moment felt like. When she could speak without tears in her voice, she asked, "Is he there?"

Alice seemed to know she was talking about Edward. "He was when I left this morning."

"Does he know you're bringing me here?" She hated herself for wishing he'd sent Alice. For hoping anything when it came to Edward, especially after last night. By now, he must be disgusted by what he'd seen. Bella had listened to Rosalie, but hope was the most perilous toy in the toy box. The one that could truly hurt her.

"He thinks I'm taking you to Seattle."

Of course. He hadn't asked for her. He wouldn't want her here. "Then why aren't you?" They were close to the turnoff now.

"Because I want my life back."

Bella shook her head. "I can't help you with that."

"You're wrong, Bella. Don't you get it? You're the key to everything." There was no giddiness, no sales pitch. Alice said it like it was the hardest truth she'd ever faced.

Bella bristled. "I'm not a 'key' or a toy or a magic solution to anything, Alice."

"Of course you're not," Alice snapped, grabbing Bella's hand and squeezing it hard. "You're the missing person in our family. We can't be whole without you. None of us."

"So this is about what I can do for the Cullens?" Bella's voice was quiet, deadly. How dare Alice? How dare any of them?

"What we did—it was wrong, Bella. And I've never stopped regretting it. Neither has Edward or Jasper."

Alice braked again, slowing for the turn onto the private drive, and Bella drew a shaky breath. She'd said her goodbyes to this place. How could she face it again? "I'm sorry for my part in this. If it makes any difference, I've never been close to anyone the way I was with you. I've missed our friendship more than I can say."

Bella hoped her silence conveyed … she didn't even know what. How could you sum up the years of dismay and grief and self-doubt? She could almost see a ghost of her seventeen-year-old self weaving, lost, through the ferns and trees. Wondering how she'd been so wrong, and how she could win them all back. She wondered if there really was anything left of the girl she once was, and if so, whether it was worth saving.

Alice stopped the car and grasped Bella's hand. "I don't deserve a second chance to be your friend, but I'm asking you to give me one. I love you, Bella."

They were the words she'd needed so desperately ten years ago, words that would have absolved everything the moment they were spoken.

But now? What could they possibly mean now? Bella couldn't take them at face value anymore. She breathed deeply and remained silent, letting Alice interpret it as she would. She couldn't bear the thought of crying, or of falling into Alice's arms for a hug of reconciliation. Nothing was reconciled. Nothing made sense.

They drove slowly and silently past the path to the meadow and eventually into the Cullens' front yard.

"We're home."

Bella shook her head and opened her car door. "I don't have a home in Forks. Not anymore." She got out before Alice could reply. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, she thought grimly.

But it didn't smell like fire: it smelled damp and green and familiar.

And beloved.

Tears pricked her eyes when she raised them in time to catch a glimpse of Edward. His retreating form disappeared onto the trail that ran beside the river. Something about his body in motion, leaving her behind again, loosed her tears. They streamed down her cheeks.

"He's lost without you, B. Always has been." Alice's voice hitched and she fell silent, though she placed a shaking hand on Bella's back.

They stood side by side, staring at the place where Edward disappeared into the woods, until an arm encircled each of their shoulders and Jasper said, "He'll be back, darlin'."

Jasper held tight to Alice, but watched Bella's face. Was the thought of Edward returning her fondest hope or worst fear? By the look of her, it was both and so much more. Finally, Bella nodded.

Then she turned to him. "How are you Jasper? Really." Her question was weighted in such a fashion that Jasper understood: Alice had told Bella.

Alice slipped from beneath his arm and hurried toward the house.

For a moment, he just stared at her retreating form. This was monumental: she'd actually told someone. He knew she hadn't before.

When the door of the house clicked quietly shut behind Alice, he said, "For some reason, she still loves me."

To his surprise, Bella threw her arms around his waist and hugged him hard. "I don't know what to do, what to believe."

Jasper stroked her hair, waiting her out.

"Does he hate me?"

Jasper let out a huff that in any language translated into _don't be stupid_. "Hates himself mostly. And after what he saw last night, he's afraid he drove you to it."

She became incredibly still in Jasper's arms. He couldn't even feel her breathing. Even Bella probably didn't know if she'd have arrived at her current role if things had been different with Edward.

What Jasper understood, better than most, is that Bella had made the choices.

She was responsible.

"Why is he back?"

"Why do you think?" Jasper adored Bella almost as much as he loved Alice, but really, she was refusing to see the obvious. "He has no family, no job, no friends here. There's only one reason for him to come back, Bella. You."

"But that doesn't make sense!" It was an anguished plea, one Jasper was sorry he couldn't answer to her satisfaction. Only Edward could do that.

"It will, Bella. I promise it will." Jasper continued to stroke her hair while she held on to him, but he didn't look down to see her face. He knew she needed that last vestige of privacy. Like him, Bella seemed to hate being caught _feeling_.

When she seemed a bit more composed, Jasper led her around to the back entrance, sliding open the patio door so they could enter without having to separate from their embrace.

The bedroom Jasper slept in was the only one on the first floor. Though it was only lunchtime, he led her there and pulled back the covers on the bed. Bella released him, toed off her shoes and lay down like an obedient child, finally looking up and meeting his eyes as he settled the covers over her.

He bent over and kissed her forehead. "You deserve to be happy, darlin'."

Her big brown eyes welled again, but he didn't offer further sympathy. She needed to sit with that thought. So Jasper gave her a small bow, like a true Southern gentleman, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Then he took the stairs two at a time. He needed to find Alice.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

The bedroom door stood open—the bedroom they once shared, Alice reminded herself—and she heard him before he stopped at the threshold. She ached that he did so, but she was also relieved. Without turning away from the window, she asked, "What did she say?"

She could tell he shrugged, though she never looked back at him. "Not much. She's got a lot to think through."

It was a non-answer as far as Alice was concerned. She turned away from the window and tried to brush past him. "I have to—"

"No." Jasper hooked his arm around her waist and turned her toward him. It was dizzying, being so close to him. He smelled like grass and sunshine and man. Her man. And part of her wanted him right now. "Bella and Edward have to work this out themselves."

She struggled to free herself. She couldn't do this. Not yet. "But—

"Alice."

Jasper's voice sank through her like a stone in a pond, settling into her core and sending ripples in all directions. He was so handsome. He smelled so good. And he was doing everything she could ask: talking to Edward, comforting Bella.

And he wanted her: the timbre of desire rang through in that one word: her own name.

He towed her toward the bed and she felt helpless to resist. She wanted him so badly, but she wasn't ready. Nothing was resolved between them.

But his mouth was on her, and she couldn't help returning his kiss, reflecting back his desire with her own. His arms, his mouth, his arousal at her belly. To be skin to skin again, lost in pleasure … the reunions were always sweet.

And always short-lived.

Alice pulled back from the kiss, heartsick.

But Jasper dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her waist. Her hands automatically went to his hair. It was sweet relief to still be holding him, but not surrendering.

He looked up at her, though it wasn't up by much. Even on his knees, he wasn't much shorter than Alice. "Since that day in London ..." He released her waist and placed his hands on her face, pulling her so close that his lips touched hers as he continued. "I've thought of you pregnant every day." He kissed her now, gentle pecks to her cheeks and jaw and lips. "Your belly growing with my child." He kissed down the column of her neck and said the next words over her heart. "I can wait forever, Alice, if it means you'll invite me in again."

He looked up at her then over to the bed, pressing a hand to her belly as he used to do when she had menstrual cramps. "Into your bed, into your body." His voice dropped. "Into your heart."

Alice held his face and kissed his mouth fiercely: an emphatic yes-but-no. Yes, she wanted him, but she had too many questions. And she had yet to take the hardest risk: offering him his freedom.

Now was the time.

"Are you sure you wouldn't be happier with Maria?" Alice would give him that, if it would make him happy. It would cost her everything that mattered, but she would give it.

Jasper placed a finger over her mouth to stop the usual torrent of words—words that wouldn't have come this time. She couldn't bear to say more. Still, it was his signal that she should listen. "Maria and I ran away to Civil War Gettysburg together." He shook his head and snorted, apparently struck by the absurdity of it, while Alice held her breath, waiting for his verdict. He stroked her cheek. "I don't want to run away anymore. I want to live my life. With you."

Something broke inside her. It was everything Alice wanted to hear, but it also wasn't enough.

He'd said all the right things before.

And then he'd left again.

She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his hair. "I want you, Jasper. So much. But I can't yet, and I'm afraid you'll leave me again." Her sobs weren't pretty: her heart was too broken for that. She didn't even care. If he left now, what did it matter anyway?

Suddenly she was in his arms, scooped up like a bride. Alice only cried harder, knowing she would give in, knowing she would regret it.

But Jasper didn't carry her to the bed. He took her to the love seat that faced a window overlooking Esme's gardens and gazebo. Alice had often, in dreams she'd never shared with Jasper or anyone else, pictured children playing there.

Jasper sat down, holding her in his lap, his arms wrapped tightly around her. "I'm not leaving," he whispered into her hair. "I'm never leaving. You'll see."

Alice's body believed him—her skin, her bones. But she sobbed to the cadence of his steady reassurances.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

When Bella woke, she peeked out of Jasper's bedroom, but her stealth was unnecessary. No one seemed to be around. It was a disappointment, but also a relief. No one could stop her from retrieving her bag and going for a run. She needed the release that only came from her body when it was pushed hard enough.

She needed to push it hard.

She laced up her trainers out on the porch, hoping to be off before anyone looked for her. It was misty, the kind of mist that doesn't even make the ground wet—perfect for running. Without further preparation, Bella started at a warm-up pace, taking the trail that led into the national forest lands. It made the longest loop up and away from the Cullen house.

Bella loved running hills. The effort of keeping her pace took all of her concentration and her mind went blessedly blank. After a while, the effort also gave way to the sensation that her body wasn't quite touching ground. It became a euphoria free of happiness or feelings.

A purely physical joy, which ended when she crossed the trail that led to the meadow.

It would be empty, she reasoned, and in daylight it wouldn't be haunted by the ghosts of unhappy memories. Wildflowers were not in season, so it wouldn't seem magical as it had the day they made love there.

It would be lovely, but entirely ordinary.

Bella slowed to a walk as the trees thinned. She stayed at the perimeter, circling and trying to trust the place.

Eventually, her circles narrowed, drawing her closer and closer to the center of it all. She was nearly at the spot, the one that never left her memory, when the dead grass moved.

She stilled for a moment, then moved forward, knowing that whatever animal she'd startled must be long gone already.

But no. Just as she stepped closer, there was movement again. Something large stirred and sat up.

"Edward." Bella hardly breathed the word.

He looked disoriented, as if he'd just woken but didn't yet realize it. "Are you real?" His voice was gruff with sleep and disillusionment. As if he couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

Something split open in her, a god-awful mixture of misery and sweet hope. She couldn't decide which of them was worse. "I must be," Bella choked out the words to a question that seemed completely fair since she wasn't quite sure herself. "I don't think either of us would make this up."

Edward's eyes looked glassy with unshed tears. "Were you looking for me?" The disbelief and hope in his words buckled Bella's knees, and she staggered forward, crouching beside Edward.

She hadn't been looking for him. At least, she didn't think so. Hadn't she assumed he was already back in Port Angeles? She pictured him talking with Rosalie, their heights and unreal beauty so well matched.

But hadn't part of her always hoped? Always looked for him around every corner and in every new situation? "Yes," she said. "I was afraid you'd left." She could no longer deny how much she wanted something from Edward. An explanation, an apology, a happily ever after.

As she balanced there, one hand on the ground to steady herself, it occurred to her: after all these years, she was still building her entire world around him. Hadn't she hoped he'd be proud of her degrees and career? Hadn't she wondered what he would think when she bought her house? Hadn't she climaxed at the thought of him seeing her in Jacob's playroom?

Somehow, it was all for Edward.

As the realization struck, she was so absorbed in it that she didn't immediately notice the way Edward's shoulders slumped. "Of course you thought I left," he whispered.

When she did, she quickly tried to backtrack. "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay, Bella." Edward rose to his feet, and Bella saw he was still dressed for his run. He must have run himself into exhaustion, too.

Despite his muscular frame, he looked fragile.

Finally, he scanned the meadow as if from her perspective. "You must hate this place."

Bella shook her head. Nothing could have been further from the truth. How can you hate the scene of your happiest moment, even when it's also the crucible that saw your most painful one as well? "I was so happy when we ..."

Edward hung his head. "I destroyed it, and I'm sorry." He turned and began walking away.

He still hadn't met her eye.

Bella lunged for his hand, spinning him to face her. "Was it real?"

Edward stepped close, too close. He was right there, his eyes locked on hers. He trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "It was the most real thing I've ever done."

"Ever?" How could that be true? He'd done so much, been so many places. She didn't let herself think of the many women he must have taken to his bed, especially Tanya.

He leaned closer, as if he might kiss her, and Bella stepped back, her hand to the cheek he'd just touched. "Then why?"

Edward's hand still hung in the air, as if she were still there. Then he let it fall to his side. "It was the only way to protect you."

"Protect me?" It made no sense. Her father was the chief of police, for heaven's sake. And this was Forks, Washington. "From what?"

He hung his head again. "I can't tell you."

The bastard.

Bella spun away and broke into a sprint. Edward didn't want her. Alice and Jasper were wrong. Or they were in on it.

Why had they picked her back then? And why had she let herself fall for it again?

Something between a laugh and a sob escaped her as she realized: Edward had perfected the art of humiliating her. All he needed now was some skill with ropes and floggers. They could be good together after all.

The thought was devastating.

Fuck Edward. Fuck Alice. Fuck the game they were playing.

Bella's feet flew over the path toward the house, familiar enough that the tears clouding her vision didn't slow her pace.

"Bella!"

It wasn't until he shouted at her that Bella listened. His footfalls matched her own, but his legs were longer. He'd catch her.

She tried to speed up, but she was already tired from a grueling run, and her shaking legs began to slow just as she realized she'd trapped herself between Edward and the river, at the very spot where she'd hidden her letters on graduation night.

Suddenly Edward had her, his hands wrapped around her upper arms as if he feared she'd continue right into the water.

Bella shook free of him and scrambled to the water's edge. "What do you want from me?" The words tore from her chest and echoed off the trees. "What kind of game are you playing with me? Because I don't know the rules, Edward. Do I win if I'm strong? Do I win if I lose? Or do I just keep losing?"

"It was never a game, Bella. Never." He stepped toward her warily, hands out, but Bella, scooped up a rock and threw it.

The thud as it hit his chest settled sickeningly in her stomach. A lot like the thud of a flogger, really.

Edward stood stock still, as if waiting for the next rock.

Was this what she looked like as she waited for the next blow? Welcoming the pain?

In spite of everything, she didn't want Edward to welcome pain. _Not him._

Bella raised her hand as if to touch Edward's chest where the rock had hit. "I'm sorry."

Edward shrugged. "I deserve it."

"No." Bella shook her head, unable to look away from his eyes.

"Tell me why you let him hurt you."

Bella's cheeks flamed. He wasn't getting away with it, not this time. "After you tell me why you _had to leave_ and what you think you were _protecting me from_." She couldn't resist using air quotes.

Trapped between the rocks and the river, Bella had little choice to wait as, step after step, Edward closed the distance. When he was close enough, he touched her cheek again, and Bella couldn't help looking into his eyes. Pleading.

"If I'd told you then, he would have hurt you. If I tell you now, I'd make you an accessory to a crime."

Bella raised a hand, not sure if she would slap him or stroke his cheek.

But a shrill electronic chirping broke the spell: Edward's phone.

He seemed intent on ignoring it, but Bella stepped away. What did she really know about Edward? Very little that wasn't in the media or reported to her by Alice, Jasper and Rosalie, who made a highly effective PR committee.

He was too good at worming his way past her defenses. She needed to think.

So she said, "You should get that."

She was desperate to escape to the house, but Edward's eyes pleaded with her to stay as he pulled his phone from his pocket and answered. "Edward Cullen." He scowled and Bella began to back away, afraid of what she might hear.

But what she did hear rooted her to the spot, her eyes on Edward's. "Slow down, Seth. Start again. What's happened to Rosalie?"

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

It should have been a satisfying day: the reviews of last night's opening were favorable toward the photographs and one contained a few juicy suggestions about the scuffle between Edward and Jacob. Foot traffic had been excellent, and two more photographs sold. She'd made more money in the last two days than she had in the last month. Seth even showed up on time to finish the cleanup.

Still, Rosalie was pissed off at Rope Chick all over again. Not that Bella had done anything wrong. More that she'd wormed her way in, and the little chink that had opened in Rosalie's heart the night before as she soothed away Bella's nightmare was widening.

Stretching.

Growing.

And it ached.

Rosalie didn't do fragile. She wasn't some sad princess to be petted and cheered. She was a goddamn warrior, and it didn't matter if her armor was heavy and she got tired sometimes. You got up and kicked ass anyway. That's what she always told herself.

So it was a shit time to discover she was lonely and, far worse, that she wanted more.

Friendship, and the longing for love, all in one day.

"I'm done with the garbage, Ms. Hale." Seth had been contrite all day, and Rosalie decided to reward him. He'd finished everything on the list without reminders, and had even noticed a few things on his own, taking care of them without asking or being told.

She gave him a curt nod—he didn't need to know she was going soft. No one did. "Wash up, then I want you to play."

Seth smiled, but had the grace to squelch it by mashing his lips together. It gave Rosalie the unsettling feeling that he could see right through her. The little fucker.

When he returned, Rosalie barked out, "_La fille aux cheveux de lin_."

Debussy was always a risk. She couldn't play this piece herself anymore, but it had been haunting her lately, mental background music she couldn't shake. And since it hadn't caused any panic attacks, she was willing to brave it. She could always make him stop, claiming he was butchering it.

Seth hesitated—she'd given him a list of things not to play in her presence, and this piece was on it.

"What are you waiting for?" She clapped her hands, more football coach than piano teacher. "I know what I'm doing. Now."

He nodded and looked down at the keys, adjusting his body and centering himself. Rosalie could feel it as if she were doing it herself—the feeling of entering the music. And then he began.

It washed over her and through her, an impossible balance of loss and delight. The music was still in her, she could feel it flowing. With her eyes closed, she sat perched on the edge of her chair, swaying slightly, as if her own hands were in motion on the keyboard.

It was so close. If she just put her hands on the keys, it would flow as it always had, from some place beyond brain and heart and hands. Some wordless language that she could channel better than all but a handful of other people on the planet.

Eventually, Seth would be one of them. His technique was excellent. There were nuances yet to master, the ones that come from living and loving and inhabiting the music, but he would get there. He would leave her far behind.

When he finished, he went still for that sweet moment when the last notes still hung in the air, then put his hands in his lap. Rosalie crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder. "You did a good job today. Why don't you head on home?"

He seemed to grasp the praise she couldn't voice. "It's still early. I could ..." He trailed off, eyes scanning the room for something he could do to occupy the last half hour before closing, but all was in order.

"Don't worry, you'll get full pay," Rosalie teased. But when he looked at her, almost injured by what she seemed to imply, she softened. "I'm exhausted, and with the rain, I doubt we'll have anyone else in this afternoon. I'm going to close up early."

"Thanks, Ms. Hale." Seth stood and fetched his jacket. "Are you sure? I could stay and walk you out."

Rosalie rolled her eyes. "I'll be fine, Seth." If anyone ought to know Rosalie didn't need a body guard to escort her to her car, it was Seth. He'd had a close encounter with her knife skills. "Just lock the front door, please."

She shook her head as he made a show of checking the back one more time for anything else that needed to go out to the dumpster. Finally, he shrugged and backed toward the door. "Good night."

"Bye, Seth. Don't let the door hit you and all that." Rosalie crossed to her office. She didn't want anyone hovering for what she was about to attempt.

When the coast was clear, Rosalie returned to the gallery and turned the piano so it faced the back wall. No one would be able to flag her if they looked in the windows and saw her. Then she turned down the lights, took a seat at the bench and set her hands on the keys.

Yes.

The music was there, close to the surface: tenderness and longing and flights of passion and fury wound into intricate notes and chords. Rosalie centered her self, shifting on the bench, settling her shoulders, closing her eyes so the music could flow unchallenged by her senses.

She didn't think about which pieces she loved or which ones were triggers. She didn't think at all.

She played.

The music came and she dissolved into it. There was no gallery. No Royce. No time.

Nothing but life rendered in sound.

Until a hand landed on her shoulder.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

This was not the day of victory Emmett had planned.

Fog had prevented his takeoff from the layover in Phoenix, so he'd sat in the airport until well past dawn before boarding the plane to SeaTac. The airport hotel put him in a smoking room and, thanks to a Shriner convention, no other rooms were available. And his wakeup call never came.

As a consequence, he'd arrived in Port Angeles far later than anticipated, and nursing the kind of gut ache that can only come from large quantities of greasy food eaten while driving.

After a stop in a filling station restroom to change pants—some unidentified "special sauce" had dripped from one of his sandwiches onto his lap, missing the napkin—and some bad directions from both his GPS and a toothy waitress at a kitschy cafe, he finally arrived at the Hale Gallery with just 15 minutes to spare before it closed.

Or so he thought. He pulled up to the curb, peering at the darkened windows through the rain.

"Shit," he murmured, not being one for yelling, especially in defeat.

Still, he decided due diligence was in order. He extracted himself from his miniature rental car and went to the door to verify that the gallery was a going concern. For all he knew, it had closed months ago. Galleries weren't known for longevity, especially in an economy threatening recession.

Though the "house lights," for lack of a better term, were off, spotlights still illuminated artwork on the walls, and strangely enough, he could hear the strains of piano music. He cupped his hand and peered at the back of the gallery, where a glint of light off of golden hair focused him. A woman was inside, playing the piano.

Emmett tried the door, and it opened, just as the music soared into a crescendo that sounded like bittersweet loss. He blushed a bit for even thinking something that artsy and cleared his throat, but the woman was lost in what she was doing.

He didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with her, whoever she was. Perhaps the "Hale" in Hale Gallery? He'd need to win her over to get information about Edward Cullen.

So what was the polite thing to do here? The lights were out, and she clearly wasn't expecting any more customers today. But she was in, and this was his job. He cleared his throat and said, "Excuse me," but she didn't hear him.

He hesitated for a moment longer, then quietly approached, waiting for the music since it seemed to be moving toward a conclusion, a final feeling.

When her hands slowed and a long note hung in the air, he gently touched her shoulder.

And she screamed.

It wasn't one of those short, startled shrieks that can be kind of cute from the right woman at the right time.

It was terror unleashed.

She screamed and recoiled, overturning the piano bench and falling in her blind lunge to get away. When she hit the floor, she finally looked up.

He recognized her immediately, and kicked himself for not putting it together sooner. Hale Gallery was owned by Rosalie Hale. After it happened, her face had been on the cover of every New York newspaper except his for quite a while, the scar on her cheek livid, the headlines even worse.

Emmett had believed her story from the start. You didn't report on the financial world without knowing plenty about the King family, none of it good.

"Ms. Hale, I didn't mean to startle you." He crouched down, not wanting to loom over her, but his proximity seemed to frighten her even more. She let out a sound of terror he'd never heard before and scrambled across the floor like an animal until she backed herself into a wall.

And then she rocked and moaned, "No. Please no." A puddle appeared beneath her.

For all of his bulk and hard-nosed reporting, Emmett possessed a tender heart, and it broke at the sight of a woman cowering in terror.

It also seized when the door flew open and a boy ran in shouting, "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing, I swear," Emmett replied, glancing at the kid for only a moment before returning his gaze to Rosalie Hale. She shook and panted, her eyes dilated to black. This kind of panic could kill a person, he was sure.

He slowly and carefully extracted his business card from his breast pocket and held it out behind him. "I'm Emmett McCarty. I was looking for Edward Cullen." He waved the card a little, impatient for the boy to take it. "I came in and she was playing piano. I touched her shoulder to get her attention. That's all."

"Shit," the kid breathed. "It's my fault. I forgot to lock the door when I left. I came back as soon as I remembered."

"What's your name?" Emmett risked a glance away from Rosalie to meet the boy's eyes. He looked wary, and Emmett did his best to appear calm and patient. Time was critical now.

It seemed to take forever, but the boy finally, grudgingly, said, "Seth." Emmett couldn't tell if the kid actually trusted him, or if he just didn't know what else to do.

"Where's her purse, Seth?" The boy bristled, but Emmett continued slowly, calmly. "She's having a panic attack. We need to see if she has any medicine in her purse."

To Emmett's everlasting relief, the boy scuttled away into an office and returned quickly with a bottle of pills in his hand. "She doesn't carry a purse, but this was in her desk." Apparently, it wasn't trust: Seth tossed the bottle to Emmett from halfway across the gallery.

Xanax. He opened the cap and extracted two, though the directions called for one "as needed." One was clearly not going to cut it this time. "Can you bring me some water, Seth?"

The boy hurried to a cupboard, returned with a bottle of water and tossed it to Emmett.

"What are you going to do?" Seth looked like he didn't know whether to run or attack.

"I'm going to crawl over to her and try to get her to take these. Unless you want to try?" Emmett fixed him with a look, and Seth reluctantly shook his head, seeming to recognize that he was in over his head.

Rosalie didn't flinch when Emmett began to move. Her eyes were glazed, unseeing, and she continued to shake. Her breathing was so rapid, he was surprised she didn't faint.

"Rosalie?" She didn't look and didn't appear to be listening, but Emmett spoke steadily, quietly. "Rosalie, my name is Emmett. You 're having a panic attack, Rosalie. I'm sorry for that. I didn't mean to scare you, and I would never, ever hurt you." He slowly closed the gap between them, sliding on his knees, but not crawling. He didn't want to look predatory. When he was close enough that they could touch if they both reached, he held out his hand for her to see the pills. "You need to take these, Rosalie. They'll help with the panic."

She stared at his hand for so long that his arm started to shake, but he held it there. She panted as if she'd run a marathon, her eyes still black with terror. Just when he feared he'd have to move closer and risk scaring her, she looked up at him. Her eyes seemed to focus, and a single tear trickled down her cheek.

"I know," he murmured. "I'm so sorry."

She reached toward the pills, then flinched away again.

"It's okay, Rosalie. You're safe."

Her face crumpled then, and she reached for the pills, hiding her face as she did so.

"That's right," Emmett soothed. His voice was deep but hushed, and it hitched as he told her, "Here. I've got water for you." He moved to hand it to her, but she recoiled so he rolled it across the floor.

She clutched the pills in one hand and the water in the other, but seemed unwilling to take them with Emmett so close. He backed away—not far, but as a show of good faith. "I'll stay here while you take them, I promise."

She watched him warily, and he sat still, waiting for her to trust him. At last, without taking her eyes off of him, she twisted the cap off of the water bottle and took the pills.

"That's good, Rosalie."

"Ms. Hale, are you okay? Did he ..."

Emmett shot a glance back at Seth. The boy wasn't far behind him, and he looked scared and guilty.

"It's all my fault, I forgot to lock up."

Emmett shook his head, ready to reassure Seth, when Rosalie spoke. "You're not in trouble, Seth. Now go home."

"But..."

"Now, Seth!" Rosalie's voice was ragged and angry, and Emmett nodded to the boy, who reluctantly backed toward the door, but ran once he was outside. Emmett's heart lurched in sympathy for the kid, caught between the need to run like hell and his instinct to stand and defend. He'd be a good man someday.

When Emmett turned to her, Rosalie's body still shook, but she met his gaze. "You have to leave," she said, and it was a plea. Yet there was also a pride that transcended her current circumstances.

Emmett willed himself to exude reassurance as he said, "I won't leave you like this."

Rosalie turned toward the wall. "Don't look at me." Her shoulders shook harder, with tears this time. If Emmett had been run through with a blade, it couldn't have hurt his heart more.

"There's no shame here, Rosalie. None." He crawled close enough to touch, but didn't. "I know who you are, and I know what he did to you."

She stilled, and he could almost watch her defenses go up. "What do you want?"

Emmett crept closer and held out his business card, touching her arm with it. She didn't move to take it, but he held it there, waiting, until at last she did. "_The Wall Street Journal_? A little late to this story, don't you think? Did you get what you needed?"

She glared at him, and he admired her pride, even as she sat defenseless and terrified.

"I'm in the area covering a financial story, Ms. Hale. Nothing to do with what happened to you." That was true, but not enough of the truth to be alarming. For her own safety he needed her to trust him now, so he didn't want to bring up Edward Cullen. For all he knew, she was his girlfriend. Tall, blonde and gorgeous: definitely Cullen's type if Tanya Denali were any indication.

"Suuure." She sounded almost drunk with fatigue, or perhaps the medication was already taking effect. He needed to act quickly. He couldn't just leave her here, and he needed her functioning in order to help her change clothes and take her home.

"Rosalie?" She had slumped farther against the wall, her body incrementally slackening as the panic faded. "We need to stand up."

Emmett crouched behind her, lifting her arm and guiding it around his neck. Then he carefully rose to his feet, and she followed unsteadily, the curtain of her hair hiding her face from him. He wanted to brush it back so he could gauge her condition, but thought the gesture too intimate, especially when she noticed her pants and stiffened. Her shoulders began to shake again.

He steered her toward her office, assuming the restroom would be near it, and asked, "Do you keep a change of clothes here?"

Rosalie nodded. "Bottom left drawer of my desk." She veered toward another door and Emmett followed. She clung to the door jamb of the restroom and pulled her arm away from him. "Just leave them outside the door and go. I'll be fine."

Emmett didn't respond because he wasn't going to argue. He found her clothes—a pair of jeans and a seriously distracting pair of sapphire blue panties—and returned to find the door closed. He knocked.

"I said to just leave them and go." She panted the words; she was hyperventilating.

He quietly turned the knob.

She was leaning against the wall, gasping for air, her jeans unbuttoned and unzipped. But they were fitted, and because they were wet they clung to her. She seemed to be in a panic because she couldn't get out of them.

She looked up at Emmett, her face a picture of mortification, and he knew he would have to help. And manage it in a way that didn't further humiliate her.

"Here." He set the clothes aside and steered her to the sink so her backside was against it. "Hold my shoulders." He placed her hands, then worked her pants down her hips, careful to leave her panties in place. "Okay, now hold onto the sink." He knelt, eyes averted, and worked her jeans down her legs, unzipping her boots and coaxing them off so he could remove her pants completely.

As much as he tried not to look, he saw enough. She was absurdly beautiful. He couldn't imagine a scenario in which a man would want to hurt her. If he'd tried to conjure a perfect woman in his head, he couldn't have come up with anything better than Rosalie Hale—her spirit, her golden hair and fierce eyes. He didn't let himself think about the rest of her, wishing he hadn't seen her long, bare legs (or those sapphire panties) in these circumstances.

When he'd removed the jeans, he stood, wetted a handful of paper towels and handed them to her. "I'll be just outside if you need me."

He closed the door and leaned against it, listening. He couldn't hear her breathing, which he considered a good sign. She was calming down. The water ran and paper towels rattled, then the rustle of clothes.

He could picture her, dressing herself, her eyes avoiding the mirror.

Rosalie Hale was beautiful, but it was more than that. She was fire and ice. He felt it in the way she'd played before he scared her, and saw it as she endured her panic. Her strength in such a terrible moment of vulnerability tore down Emmett's own defenses, which had been at an all-time high since the breakup with Michelle.

The woman on the other side of the door was proud beauty and fierce devotion, a force to be reckoned with. And some other lucky bastard would win her—or already had.

At least he heard the zip and he stepped back just in time for her to open the door. She was shorter now, in her sock feet. She looked young, and her eyes were full of shame and gratitude. Emmett wanted to tell her it was nothing, but sensed that her pride couldn't bear it. So he took her hand and led her to her office, settling her into a chair. "I'll just be a minute, and then I'll take you home."

Emmett found the supply closet and cleaned up the floor in the studio, then put her clothes in the sink to soak. It was the best he could do.

After washing his hands and turning off lights, he picked up her boots. Something shiny caught his eye: a knife, secured inside with an elastic. Heartbreak and admiration warred within him as he returned to Rosalie's office.

She was so still he thought she'd fallen asleep, but her eyes were wide and searched his. "Why are you here?"

"I told you before, I'm a reporter, and I'm working on a financial story with ties to the Port Angeles area."

It was as if she hadn't heard him. "Anyone else would have run screaming. Or snuck out the door at the first opportunity." Her gaze faltered, her eyes closing for longer than a normal blink before opening again. "You must want something pretty badly."

Emmett wanted a couple of things pretty badly. He'd come for a story, perhaps the most important story of his career. A story with huge implications, not just for Denali Group investors, but for the economy as a whole.

And after perhaps the most difficult introduction in history, he wanted Rosalie Hale. What he'd seen awed him. She was magnificent: at the piano, and in her battle against what had happened. She was courage incarnate, right down to her knife, but also vulnerable. Someone he could care for, if she let him.

He set the boots before her and the knife slid out of its loop, clinking on the floor. Their eyes met, and he bent to retrieve it. He slid it back where it belonged and held out the boot for her foot. A hint of a smile ghosted across Rosalie's face as she put her foot in and he zipped. She reached for the other and, with fumbling fingers, managed to pull it on and zip it up.

Then she yawned, and Emmett knew he had to hurry. She couldn't fall asleep until she'd told him where she lived and helped him find it.

"What's your address, Rosalie?"

She sat up straighter. "Why should I tell you that?"

"So I can drive you home."

Rosalie slumped and nodded, a concession of defeat that solidified something in Emmett's heart. He wanted to see her again: to see her walking tall and strong and unafraid.

She quietly gave him the street number and he typed it into the GPS on his phone.

Then he helped her up and she leaned into him so that his arm fit perfectly around her shoulders. Before he realized what he was doing, he kissed her hair, inhaling the pretty scent of woman and shampoo, and marveling for an instant that anything could be so soft. To Emmett's great surprise, Rosalie gave a relieved sigh and wrapped her arms around his waist.

She was loopy with medication, he reminded himself as he led her out of the gallery into the dusk and tucked her into the passenger seat.

By the time he performed the tricks of compression and contortion necessary to get himself behind the wheel of his compact rental, she appeared to be sound asleep. But his heart surged when she sought his hand, pulling it into her lap and tightly holding it with both of hers.

Getting the key into the ignition and the car into gear left-handed was difficult, but he never let her go.

**A/N:** I'm contributing a one-shot Bella and Edward story to a compilation for a friend and fellow Twific author who needs our help**. Mostly A Lurker (****http:/www**** (.) fanfiction (.) net/u/2485360/mostly_a_lurker****) is still suffering the effects of a serious workplace injury from several years ago. She's in the process of obtaining a service dog to help her with her daily routine and provide companionship. Mal has found a wonderful collie and a qualified trainer; now all she needs is to cover the costs. You can help! Please visit her blog to find out more info, and see photos of Leo - he's a very handsome dude. **

http:/mostlyalurker (.) blogspot (.) com/?zx=b6ff32b569d07681

**You don't have to donate money. Airline or hotel miles would help, too! **

**No matter what you donate, you'll get a great compilation of stories from some amazing authors:**

**Anais Mark, Bella Flan, eddiebell69, justduckie, Sebastien Robichaud, Lady Tazz, Mrs. The King, Exqusite Edward, DeJean Smith, MG2112, Morgan Locklear, Sarita, wmr1601,javamomma, Duskwatcher, yellowglue, and Savage.**

Here's a teaser for my story for this compilation: "She knew something was wrong when he arrived on time and in a crisply pressed shirt she didn't recognize. She used to tease him that he'd be late for his own funeral. But he wasn't hers to tease anymore, and this was Alice's funeral."

**Please consider donating to bring Mal and Leo together. This will go a long way to improve Mal's quality of life. Thank you!**

**P.S. Your kind feedback over the summer has encouraged me to include story recs in my A/Ns in the future. Look for some recs next chapter.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a disk sander, a pliers, a bucket of spackle and three strips of paint chips, which are currently taped to a wall in my foyer. Oh! and the plot of this story. Unending gratitude to my beta Serendipitous, aka MeilleurCafe, and prereader Isabeausink. They save me from myself all the time. Seriously.**

Chapter 11

When she met him in front of the garage 20 minutes later, her skin sweetly flushed from a fast shower, Edward held out the keys to her. He'd been awake for 34 of the last 36 hours, and knew he couldn't safely take the wheel.

His heart nearly flipped over in his chest when a smile quirked her lips, though he could see she tried to keep it back. "You're letting me drive?" He'd rarely consented to let Bella drive when they dated. He'd been too invested in superior speed and the machismo of driving to tolerate a position in the passenger seat.

"The Aston Martin, if you've learned how to drive manual." He smirked at her, and she rolled her eyes. Her old truck was manual, but he'd always told her that farm equipment didn't count.

Edward entered the code for the garage door, wondering what Bella would make of Hair Shirt. He hoped she would ask about it because he wanted to tell her its name. He wanted her to understand.

But Bella stared at the car for several seconds, met his eyes, then got in without a word.

Was that a good start, or more of the same?

When she still hadn't spoken by the time they reached the highway, Edward closed his eyes. He was too exhausted to try, and too miserable to hope that she would meet him halfway. Why should she? He thought of the fury and sadness in her face at the river. He couldn't seem to stop hurting her.

He had almost drifted off when she finally spoke. "You said 'still.'"

Something in Edward's chest seemed to plummet to his gut. She was talking about the gallery. She'd been listening to him. She remembered. Why did that scare him so deeply? "I did?"

Bella nodded, eyes trained on the road. "Last night, you said, _still_." Her voice quavered over that word. Was this something he could give her? Though he wanted to protect her from everything he'd done, this information was safe and he wouldn't keep this from her.

"I used to sneak into your room at night. After."

Bella glanced sharply at him, but immediately returned her gaze to the road ahead. "Why?" She sounded so puzzled, and Edward understood the full meaning of that word. Why would he waste time when he'd dismissed their relationship's importance to anyone who would listen? When he'd convinced her it had all been an act?

Still, it was hard to confess. "The first time, I wanted to get the rest of the pictures and stuff." She didn't blink, didn't move, but her hands seemed to harden on the wheel, as if she were turning to stone. "I thought I woke you up, because you said my name. But you were having a nightmare, calling out to me." His voice gave way.

Her face paled, then all of her exposed skin flared a blotchy red. "You knew?" She was quivering, and he longed to soothe her, to touch her hair or take her hand.

"After that, I couldn't stay away. I came back night after night. I wanted so badly to hold you." He still wanted that. His entire body had been tense with that need since he could remember.

Bella swiped at her eyes. "Then _why_?"

That word, a whisper of misery, broke the dam and suddenly, he couldn't stop himself. "Because it was my fault. And because I love you." He shifted in his seat, suddenly animated by the need to make her understand, consequences be damned. "I'm not a good person. I wasn't a good person before I came to Forks. When I met you, I thought maybe I could be one. But it was already too late."

"What are you talking about?"

He wanted to tell her, but couldn't risk bringing up Eleazar or Tanya. "Didn't you read my letters?"

"Letters?" It was a broken whisper, but Bella cleared her throat. "I never got any letters."

"I put them in the box under the floor board. The shoebox where you kept our things."

Our things.

Love, not loved.

Bella felt as if she were outside of her body, or in a dream. None of this was possible.

Was it?

She'd never opened the shoebox, not even when she packed it. She'd never been able to face those photographs, the notes he used to slip into her locker or backpack. His handwriting, so crabbed and convincing. She didn't realize she'd been shaking her head in disbelief as she worked this out in her mind.

Not until he reached across the center line of the car, across the no-man's land of limited space and too many years, and stroked her cheek. "Please read them, Bella."

She nodded, risking a glance at him.

He looked perfectly miserable. Though he was still heart-stoppingly handsome, some kind of sorrow had aged him. She knew about sorrow, and could see the toll it had taken in the weariness around his eyes, the lines on his forehead. The changes in his face somehow made it seem possible that he was telling the truth.

Love, not loved. He'd said it earlier, but now Bella realized it might be true. He might have loved her all along, might have been torn away against his will.

Nothing felt real until Edward touched her again. Just a fingertip, tracing the curve of her shoulder. "Tell me about teaching."

Bella barked out a laugh. Was she really behind the wheel of Edward's mangled car, talking about her career? "What do you want to know?"

"Everything, Bella." How did he do that? His voice made it sound as if her answer would be blessed rain after years of drought.

So she told him: about her students, her department, and the long interior journeys of study and writing that led to her scholarly publications.

Though she didn't look at him while she spoke, she could feel his attention. It seemed he really did want to know, even mundane things. At last he said, "You always loved those books."

Bella nodded. "Even more, after." She swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn't take that as an accusation. They'd been her only source of consolation during the early days _after_. She thought of it that way: after, italicized.

"I know," he said quietly. "I always read the one you had on your nightstand. I'd get my own copy and try to read it like you would."

"Why?" Would she ever understand him?

"It was as if I could hear your thoughts, what you'd say about them. It was the only time I could hear your voice, except when you cried out in your sleep. You never spoke at school." His voice caught. "Did you know you never spoke to me again?"

Bella stole a glance at him. "You told me you didn't want me. What did you expect?" It seemed so obvious.

Edward hung his head. "That was one of the hardest things. That I couldn't talk with you anymore. I wanted you to yell at me, tell me off, anything. I wanted you to say my name."

How many times had she longed for the same thing-to hear him say her name again? Her breath caught in her chest, and a single tear slid down her cheek. Fortunately, it was on the side he couldn't see. She let it fall without wiping it away, clearing her throat.

Then she said it, softly, tenderly. The way she used to. "Edward."

He seemed frozen as the word hung in the air between them. Then his shoulders dropped, as if he'd set down something heavy and finally relaxed, and he looked at her. His eyes shone with unshed tears. "Again."

Bella met his gaze. "Edward." It sounded solemn yet hopeful, like a prayer.

Then the computerized voice of the GPS broke in, and she turned her eyes back to the road just as Port Angeles came into view.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Emmett had given up every distraction he'd attempted-reading, checking e-mail, surfing the Internet, watching the Knicks game with the sound muted-and succumbed to watching Rosalie Hale as she slept on her couch, tucked under the blanket he'd found inside her leather ottoman.

It was like a painting had come to life. Her honey-blond hair, her remarkably tiny ear, her delicately veined eyelids. They were the kinds of details Emmett wasn't used to noticing, but which he couldn't help wondering over as she slept on and on. Thankfully, she breathed softly and evenly, or he would have seriously feared he'd overdosed her with the anxiety medication.

Should he wake her? He'd risen from the chair across from her more than once, thinking he should, but he didn't want to frighten her again. Not after what she'd endured at the art gallery.

Would she remember? Either answer seemed fraught with the potential for disaster. If she didn't, how would she react to a stranger in her apartment? If she did, would she be mortified? Angry? Anything was possible.

As much as he wished she'd wake up on her own and soon, the jarring sound of her building's intercom had Emmett on his feet before he even realized he'd been dozing off himself.

bzzzzz! bzzzzz!

Emmett scrambled to her door and pressed the button to speak, if only to shut up the buzzer. "Hello?"

He pressed the speaker button and listened. "Who is this?" The voice was male and decidedly pissed off. "I'm here to see Rosalie Hale."

Shit. Her boyfriend? "Sorry, she's not available at the moment. Who should I tell her stopped by?"

"Who the fuck is this? Rosalie lives alone. Buzz me in immediately or I'm calling the police."

Emmett listened a moment longer, and heard a woman's voice in the background. She sounded like she was trying to calm the guy down.

BZZZZZZ!

"If you want me to let you in, tell me who you are." He said it evenly, reasonably. If the cops came, he had nothing to hide.

"I'm her boss," the voice barked. "Now let me in. I got a call from an employee of the gallery who said she'd … Let. Me. In. NOW!"

Her boss? Emmett released the speaker button and pressed the one that opened the lobby door. Her name was on the gallery. She was the boss. Unless she worked for the elusive Edward Cullen.

When the door to the stairwell opened, Emmett stole a glance into the hallway and saw what he'd come to Port Angeles for. A worried-looking brunette had her hand around his bicep as if she were trying to keep him in hand as he stormed toward Rosalie's apartment.

Emmett closed the door again so he could remove the security chain, then opened it before they had to knock.

"Where is Rosalie?" Cullen growled, trying to edge his way past Emmett, who stood his ground. He generally tried not to use his size to intimidate, but sometimes it was necessary. Not to mention satisfying. Cullen was nearly as tall as him, but not nearly as built. Boy needed to take a step closer to the table once in a while.

The brunette extended the hand that wasn't on Cullen. "I'm Rosalie's friend Bella. Is she all right? Seth called and said she'd …" the woman trailed off, apparently not sure of her story or how to say it.

Emmett shook her hand and said quietly, "She's asleep on the couch."

He gave Cullen a pointed look then stood aside so they could enter.

Bella rushed to the living room and knelt beside Rosalie, not giving Emmett another glance, for which he was grateful. He couldn't afford to have his attention divided. He had to handle Cullen very carefully.

"Who are you?" Cullen asked again. He looked angry and suspicious but also exhausted. Like maybe he'd actually run all the way from New York.

"My name is Emmett. And you are …" He offered his hand, but Cullen just glared at it.

"Edward Cullen. Seth said you scared Rosalie today. So I need you to convince me that you aren't connected with Royce King. Because if you think-"

Emmett had savored a moment of victory when Cullen identified himself, but now that he saw what this was about, he sobered. Cullen was protecting Rosalie, which made what he'd have to do sometime during the conversation feel underhanded. He hurried to reassure. "I went into the gallery to ask a question and she was playing the piano. I tried to get her attention, but she didn't hear me, so I touched her shoulder. I never meant to scare her, and I would never, ever hurt her." He paused, his face flushing a bit before he hastily added, "or any other woman, for that matter."

"You didn't answer my question, _Emmett_," Cullen said, still glaring at him. "Are you in any way connected to Royce King?"

"No." Emmett shook his head decisively. "Everything I know about Royce King comes from newspapers."

"So what did you want to ask Rosalie?" Cullen looked slightly less suspicious, and Emmett knew that the longer he waited to identify himself, the less Cullen would trust him. As if he could trust him any less than he already did.

He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew his card. "I was hoping she could tell me where I could find you." He held the card out to Cullen. "Emmett McCarty. I'm with the _Wall Street Journal_."

Rosalie woke with a soft hand on her forehead, and for a moment, she wondered where she was. Then she opened her eyes to Bella's concerned face and took in her surroundings: she was in her apartment, lying on her own couch. And she was as bone-tired as if she'd run a marathon.

"Hey," Bella murmured. "How are you feeling?"

Rosalie despised pity, and there wasn't any in Bella's eyes, but the concern there put her on alert. She pushed herself up to a sitting position, the blanket tangled around her legs and the familiar panic grabbed at her. She scrambled the blanket off, kicking it away.

Her legs. She was wearing the jeans she kept at the gallery for emergencies: spilled soup, period gone wild.

And it all filtered back in a muddled haze far too reminiscent of the morning after a serious bender. She hadn't had one of those since before.

She never got drunk anymore. Constant vigilance.

Except her vigilance had slipped. She'd sat alone at a piano, gotten lost in the music. Lost enough that a strange man was able to touch her.

"Rosalie?" Bella's hand slipped into hers and squeezed it tight. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Fuck.

"How'd you get in here?"

Rosalie shook her head to clear it, which seemed to work. Suddenly, she was aware of voices coming from the entry.

"Edward and I came as soon as Seth called him. And Emmett's still here. He's the one …" Bella halted as if she was afraid Rosalie would lose it.

Rosalie waved away her concern. "He's fine, Bella." She said it in as bored a tone as she could muster, but it still betrayed something she'd rather not admit. A montage of moments, almost a flashback, flew past her mind's eye, and in every one of them, Emmett's face and his posture told her what no words would ever have convinced her of: Emmett was fine indeed.

She wanted to be alone with that thought, so she tried to stand, swaying a bit as she rose to her feet.

Bella steadied her by taking the hand she was holding and wrapping Rosalie's arm around her shoulder, and Rosalie couldn't help watching her for a moment. Bella understood things: it was uncanny.

If Bella had grabbed her elbow, Rosalie would have, on pure reflex, pulled away. But this? It felt right. She tilted her head and rested it for a moment to Bella's. "Thanks." Once she was steady, she released Bella's shoulder. "I should pee."

Thinking about peeing made Rosalie a little hot inside, like the first hint of nausea, but she quelled it. She rejected the shame.

Refused, goddamn it. Return to sender.

She stood up to her full height and headed for the head.

But just as she straightened up, she heard him say, "I was hoping she could tell me where I could find you." Goosebumps flared across her skin as he said, "Emmett McCarty. I'm with the _Wall Street __Journal_."

Bastard. She'd broken her iron-clad rule with men and trusted him, and this was her reward. He'd played her.

Rosalie approached silently until she was close enough to Emmett to touch him. Then she used a trick she'd learned from an older cousin back in the day and smacked him hard between the shoulder blades, her hand absolutely flat. Done correctly, it stung like a belly flop off the diving board, even through a shirt. Her cousin had always done it perfectly-she could almost feel the sting-and Rosalie did, too. "Leave," she commanded, her voice like ice.

Emmett didn't cringe, but he did tense his shoulders, and she wondered if she'd left a hand print. That would have made her proud when she was a kid, but now the idea of leaving a mark sickened her. And his look of concern rather than outrage when he turned to her gave Rosalie an instant of doubt, but she quickly shoved it aside. It was too easy to believe in the wrong men.

"Are you deaf?" She strode to the door and flung it open, her whole body quivering with fury. Only fury, she told herself.

"I'm not here to upset you," Emmett said. "I only wanted-"

"You wanted _information_ from me, information I would never have given you. You got what you came for, now get the fuck out."

Something passed over his face that made Rosalie's stomach roll over once. It felt uncomfortably close to regret, but Rosalie wasn't having any of that.

"I came to _Port Angeles_ to find Mr. Cullen. I came _here_ to take care of you," Emmett said quietly. And he watched her until she couldn't help blinking, which was almost as bad as admitting she might be wrong. She refused to admit anything of the sort. Whoever he was, this guy had seen too much. She felt too naked. He had to go.

"Before I leave, I need to know that you're really okay, and I need to speak with Mr. Cullen."

Rosalie crossed her arms and refused to meet Emmett's gaze.

"Look at me." She could see he'd stepped closer, but that he was waiting now. He even seemed patient. "Please, Rosalie."

Please? Her eyes met his before she could stop herself.

"I wasn't trying to trick you. Truly. I came to ask about Mr. Cullen because I had been trying to reach him for an interview, and I discovered he owned the building that houses your gallery. He's been a hard man to find since he left New York."

She waited him out. She wasn't going to say anything that might make him think he was forgiven. Rosalie Hale protected her friends, and Edward Cullen had turned out, in spite of Rosalie's expectations, to be a true friend. It made her sick that she was the reason Emmett found him, because if there was anything she'd learned after what happened to her, it was that reporters didn't hunt you down to tell you you'd won the lottery or a MacArthur Fellowship.

They hunted you down to pick your bones.

Even if Royce had gone to prison for what he'd done, she'd still have fled New York to escape the so-called reporters and their photographers.

But she couldn't look away from Emmett, and she couldn't muster her usual death glare. She just stared, trying not to crack before he got the hell out of her apartment.

Finally, he pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and held it out to her. "I'd like to talk with you again, Rosalie. I hope you'll call me."

"Just set it on the counter."

He shook his head and waited, until Rosalie could no longer bear it. She reached out to snatch it fast.

But Emmett caught her hand and ran his thumb slowly across her knuckles before he pressed the card into her palm and gently closed her fist around it. He held it that way for a long moment before releasing her. Then he nodded to Edward. "I'll wait for you in the hall."

Rosalie's eyes shot to Edward, who stood utterly still. His face looked ancient. She had forgotten all about Bella, who now took a step toward Edward, her hand out as if to touch him.

"You're in trouble, aren't you?" Bella stared hard at him, waiting for an answer, but he remained motionless and silent. Her hand dropped to her side.

The moment seemed so private that Rosalie watched the open doorway, part of her hoping Emmett might look in again. He'd paused on his way out, just when he was even with her, and though he hadn't looked at her, she still felt he had seen inside of her somehow. It ached.

So she turned to Bella, who was still waiting for Edward to look at her. Rosalie shook her head slightly. She knew Emmett's arrival was trouble, but she didn't know what sort of trouble it meant for Edward. Her gut said it had something to do with Tanya or her family. He'd made a quick escape from New York after she eloped.

As the silence stretched on, Rosalie watched Bella's features harden as she wrapped her arms around herself.

Rosalie recognized armor.

She closed the door and crossed to Bella, who didn't seem to notice, even when Rosalie pinched a bit of Bella's sleeve and gave it one small tug. She was as frozen as Edward.

"You haven't answered her question, Cullen." Rosalie tried to put an arm around Bella, but Bella cringed away. Her liquid brown eyes pleaded with Edward, who appeared to be staring at his own hands, which were spread out on the countertop. And shaking.

The silence grew until it seemed to fill the entire apartment, a cumulus cloud billowing toward an inevitable storm.

"That's it," Bella hissed, and she seemed to thaw in an instant. She grabbed Rosalie's hand-the one still curled around Emmett's card-in both of hers. "Talk to him, Rosalie." The words were fierce. So was Bella's face: pale but charged with a terrible energy. "You'll regret it if you don't." She shot Cullen a glance that would reduce rock to powder then planted a swift kiss on Rosalie's knuckles. She was out the door before Rosalie could say a word.

The slam seemed to wake Cullen, though his face remained ancient and ashen. "She's right," he murmured, then turned his gaze on her. "He would have found me with or without you, Rosalie. It's his job." When he sighed, he almost looked relieved. "It was only a matter of time."

"You know what this is about?"

Edward nodded without meeting her eye.

"If you need anything-_anything_-you call me, day or night." She placed her hand on his shoulder and shook it gently and he finally met her gaze. "I mean it. Anything."

He nodded again. "Thank you."

"But Edward, you have to go. You have to talk to her." She waited, watching as he began to shut down again, then punched his arm with the side of her fist. Hard. "Now! Talk to her _now_! What the hell are you waiting for? You're both miserable!"

Edward pulled Rosalie into a hug that was surprisingly tolerable. It felt safe. "Will you be okay?" he asked.

She nodded as she pushed him away, though the knot in her throat told her otherwise. Something would catch up with her once he was gone. But she was grateful she would be alone when it hit, because it felt like something much more unnerving than her panic attack.

It felt like desire. Or hope.

Cullen hurried to the door, pausing only to say, "Lock up behind me," on his way out.

To Edward's great relief, McCarty wasn't waiting for him in the hallway. He raced down two long flights of stairs. Bella had his car keys, he realized. He burst into the lobby only to find the reporter.

"Mr. Cullen? We need to talk."

Edward cast a glance at the parking lot: Hair Shirt was gone. "I have conditions," he called over his shoulder. Without breaking stride, he left the building and ran to the corner to look up and down the street.

Nowhere in sight. She could be anywhere by now, but Edward knew Bella. There was nothing in Forks for her without Charlie and she had no connection to Port Angeles. She was going home to Seattle.

The reporter was on his heels. "What conditions? You haven't even asked me what I want to talk with you about."

Edward leveled a glare at him, the one he reserved for the galactically stupid. The _Wall Street Journal _didn't fly one of its best reporters to Washington State to talk with him about his Port Angeles real estate holdings. Edward hadn't sought this out, but McCarty was on the short list of reporters Edward had given to Jenks-just in case. He'd read the man's work and admired his acumen.

Edward had waited, hoping in spite of impossible odds that Eleazar's scheme wouldn't topple. So many people would be hurt if it did. But it would. It was inevitable, especially now, as the economy teetered at the brink of a serious downturn.

And now that McCarty was here, Edward felt strangely free. The winds of recession were blowing, and as soon as investors got nervous and began withdrawing money, Eleazar's scheme would come crashing down. This was his chance to tell the truth, to set the record straight.

He would likely wind up in prison for his part in the Denali Group's fraud, but it would be worth it if he could finally tell Bella the truth. At worst, he'd just trade one prison for another.

But Bella would know the truth, and she'd know it first. Then he'd tell the reporter anything he wanted to know. "Do you have a car?"

McCarty didn't answer, but he had keys in his hand.

"Good," Edward said. "You're driving me to Seattle."

"That's your condition?" McCarty was understandably skeptical.

"I'll tell you my conditions when we're on the highway."

"And you'll talk to me about your role at The Denali Group?"

Edward just stared at him, unwilling to give up anything before he shared it with Bella.

The reporter silently assessed him then tilted his head toward a compact rental. "Let's go."

Emmett eyed Cullen as he pulled out of the parking lot. "If we're really going to Seattle, I need to stop for something to eat first."

Cullen shook his head. "There's no time for that."

"Actually there is. I ate in the car on the way here this morning, and I'm not doing it again. You can consider it one of my conditions for driving you to Seattle." Emmett wound his way back toward the art gallery, knowing he'd find restaurants in that part of town. "I'll buy you …" he glanced at the time. "... an early dinner. You look like you could stand to eat."

When Cullen didn't answer, Emmett glanced his way. He looked as if he could barely contain his fury.

"So what's the emergency in Seattle? Are you taking me to your lawyer's office before you say, 'no comment'?" Emmett was kidding when he said it, but then it seemed pretty likely and that pissed him off. Without a doubt, Cullen had the kind of lawyer who would be available on a Saturday night. "Yeah. I want to know your conditions before I drive all the way back to Seattle tonight. Consider it my condition for giving you a ride."

Emmett pulled up in front of a bistro. It looked quiet-too early for the Saturday night crowd-and like the food would sit far better than the shit he'd eaten on the drive to Port Angeles. And he was damn hungry.

"We're going in now, Cullen. C'mon." Emmett swung open his car door and began extricating himself.

"You wanted to know my conditions? Here's the first one: Bella is in Seattle. I'm not telling you anything until I talk with her. Alone."

Emmett closed the door again. "The brunette? Why do you need to talk to her before you talk with me about The Denali Group?"

"That's private, which brings me to condition number two: you will not mention her in any way. Ever. She's off limits."

Emmett stared at Cullen, trying to determine if the guy had actually gone around the bend. "What does any of it have to do with her?"

"Absolutely nothing, and I intend to keep it that way." Cullen's growl would have been comical if it weren't so, well, maniacal. He needed to keep Cullen calm. He wasn't going to get anywhere with an uncooperative or unbalanced source.

"Fine. If what you tell me is the truth, Bella stays out of it. What else?"

"I want anonymity."

Emmett balked. It wasn't an entirely surprising request, but anonymous sources were used too frequently to be credible these days. "You're going to have to give me a really good reason."

"If Eleazar knows I've provided information, he will hurt people I love."

"And how would he do that?"

"We can talk about that after you agree to my conditions."

"I can't agree to that until I know the story is solid enough to be credible without your name attached to it."

"I have records. Documentation."

"And how do I know you didn't fabricate these 'records'?"

"You'll know."

"Where are they?"

"I placed them with my lawyer in Seattle for safekeeping."

Jesus. This was it. If Cullen was telling the truth, he was sitting on Pandora's Box, and Emmett wanted to tear the lid off of it more than anything he'd ever wanted before. A pang ran through him as he thought of Rosalie. If he had even a ghost of a chance with her, this story would destroy it. Emmett frowned. He'd been trying to get to the bottom of The Denali Group's impossible successes for the better part of two years, and the stakes were sky high. Not just for him, but for investors too. He had to see it through, and hope that somehow, in spite of it all, Rosalie might give him a chance. He snorted. Fat chance of that.

Then he sighed. "Have you or your lawyer talked with any other journalists?"

"No, and if you meet my conditions, I won't. The story is yours."

"My editor knows I came here to find you. He'll have to agree to this as well."

"I think we both know it's in his best interests to agree."

Emmett's stomach snarled. He heaved a huge sigh and started the car. "Where's the nearest drive-thru?"

Edward phoned Alice while he and McCarty waited for the next ferry from Bainbridge Island to Seattle, and she agreed that Bella had likely gone home. Agreed too quickly.

"Did you talk to her?"

Alice huffed. "No. Jasper did."

That pissed Edward off, but he held it in check. "And … ?"

"And he won't tell me anything." Edward could almost see her pout.

"Put him on."

"He's not going to tell you anything, you know." Shuffling sounds muffled the rest of what she said, but it sounded to Edward like, "Not if he knows what's good for him."

More shuffling was followed by Jasper's chuckle. "Hey."

"What did she say?"

"I'm just fine, thanks for askin'." Jasper was hamming up his twang, which didn't bode well. Edward pinched his nose and took a deep breath.

"Don't fuck with me today, Jasper. I need to know what she said."

Jasper didn't reply immediately, but Edward could almost hear him thinking through what he was about to say. "No you don't, man. Just focus on winning the most important piece."

"How am I- Jaz?"

Fuck. His phone was dead. Edward thumped his head against the headrest and closed his eyes.

"So what's up with this Bella? Is she your girlfriend?"

Edward didn't open his eyes. "I've been in love with her since I was seventeen."

When McCarty didn't ask the obvious question about how Tanya fit into that story, Edward opened his eyes to see what he was thinking.

The reporter lifted one eyebrow. "Jasper? Seriously, who does that to a kid?"

"His parents are from Texas," Edward said dryly.

The reporter guffawed as if it was the best punchline he'd heard in ages, but he quickly grew contemplative. "She's pretty important to you, huh?"

"She's my life."

McCarty met his eyes for a moment as if he, too, had a woman at the center of his universe. Edward wondered if, against all odds, it might be Rosalie Hale. After Seth's call, he'd expected to find Rosalie catatonic, but McCarty had clearly taken care of her. More surprising still, she'd let him take care of her. She'd never been anything but suspicious when Edward tried to watch out for her.

Of course, they'd never seen each other before today, so a true connection didn't seem likely. Still, Edward liked the idea. Maybe someone like McCarty might actually deserve her enough to get past her formidable defenses.

And it would be nice if someone wound up happy.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

McCarty pointed at the GPS. "If this thing's right, we're almost there."

It was right. Two more turns and they pulled up in front of a Cape Cod that could have been anyone's house except for the rocking chair on the porch. The one that once occupied a corner of Bella's bedroom in Forks.

Edward's stomach dropped.

They were here. This was it.

A banker's box sat on the rocking chair. Edward had no doubt of what it contained, and wasn't about to let it stop him. He wasn't taking this consolation prize and going home. He was going to talk to Bella, even if he had to break in to do it.

McCarty opened his car door and stepped out with a groan and Edward followed suit. It was hard to breathe.

"How do you want to do this?" McCarty had his elbows on the roof of the car, drumming his fingers as if he were the nervous one.

It hadn't occurred to Edward to think of what would happen to McCarty while he talked with Bella. In his mind, McCarty just faded from view.

But the guy was huge, and very much here, and he couldn't very well ask him to wait outside.

Edward tilted his head toward the door. "C'mon." He'd explain to Bella, then talk with her privately.

He ascended the steps and rang the bell with a shaking hand.

Bella hadn't been able to make herself sit down since she arrived home. She'd changed into something comfortable and retrieved the Edward box. She found his letters exactly where he said they would be and placed them on her coffee table. Then she took the box and placed it on the rocker, placing the keys to Edward's ruined car inside. He could take what was his and leave. She'd never have to see him again.

She told herself this was a good thing. Repeatedly.

But she gave the coffee table a wide berth as she paced the house, unable to settle into grading papers or cooking supper. If she stood still, it would all catch up to her, and then what? She'd cried every tear, and at last, to her great relief, finally given up every hope.

Hadn't she? It's what she'd told Jasper in a surprisingly calm and convincing manner when she called him hoping he would be willing to pick up Edward's car. He'd been nothing but supportive since Alice's return, but in this afternoon's phone call, he'd been almost sharp with her.

Jasper had asked if Bella knew the name of Edward's car, and when she admitted she didn't, he told her. "Hair Shirt." Then he asked her if she knew why.

She did, of course. It was an unmistakable reference. Still, she snapped, "Why would I?"

"It's his punishment, Bella."

She didn't respond.

"The car. It's his punishment."

"Punishment." Bella loaded the word with every scrap of disdain and disbelief she could muster. In spite of some pretty serious infractions at school, the Edward Cullen she knew was never punished. He'd always charmed his way out of consequences.

"He craves it."

Bella snorted. It was ridiculous.

"You know about needing to punish yourself."

She bristled and blushed at the same time. "You don't know anything about me, Jasper." Which wasn't true: he knew more than enough, especially after the gallery.

Jasper hit her with a dose of Southern sarcasm. "I reckon you're smarter than that, so it's time to stand up and fight, darlin'."

For the first time in her life, Bella was tempted to spike her phone. Destruction sounded incredibly satisfying. The thought of it distracted her from whatever Jasper said next.

"What? Sorry, I missed that."

"Well. Then you'll have to ask Edward. I expect he'll be at your door shortly."

"Not likely." She couldn't keep the regret out of her voice.

"Oh sweetheart. Where else would he go?"

Bella shook her head. It had been an incomprehensible conversation. Jasper usually calmed her, but if anything, she was more amped up than when she'd left Rosalie's apartment. She was riding a tsunami-sized wave of adrenaline. Whatever it compelled her to do, she'd regret it. Or never recover from it.

Her pacing brought her back to the coffee table, where she'd meticulously laid out the unopened letters in what she believed to be the order they were put into the box. The flames of the gas fireplace flickered in a way that normally soothed her. She touched one of the letters. She should burn them, because reading them gave them power. They could change everything.

But wasn't that what she wanted?

Bella hurried to her purse for her reading glasses. She could stop anytime. She could drop any letter into the flames.

She could do this.

It pissed her off that her hand shook when she picked up the letter opener she'd set out beside the carefully arranged envelopes. She gripped it firmly and her hand steadied. Then she selected the first envelope and slit it open.

By the time she unfolded the paper-it still had the scraps left from when it was torn from a spiral notebook-this task felt entirely impersonal. It could be a note from a student, pleading for more time on an assignment or requesting a meeting. She adjusted her glasses.

_Dear Bella,_

_I wish you hated me. _

_No I don't. _

Blah, blah, blah. She set it aside without reading any farther and opened the next. She didn't want declarations or apologies. The only thing that could satisfy her now was an answer.

_Dear Bella,_

_You never talk anymore. At school, you keep your head down, your eyes on the floor, your face blank. It's even worse than it was at first, when I could feel your eyes on me, your eyes full of questions. _

_I miss your voice and your eyes. I miss holding your hand and kissing you._

She held it close to the fire but couldn't quite release it. She dropped it on the coffee table, then sliced open the remaining envelopes and stacked the letters, ignoring salutations and his crabbed signature. An answer had to be here. It had to.

_I never meant for this to happen. It makes me sick. I make me sick, because I've made you believe the worst lie I've ever told: that I don't love you. _

and

_You cry in your sleep and say my name, and I'd give anything to take it all back. I didn't figure it out until it was too late: you're the only thing that matters._

Edward's declarations should have shaken her, but Bella couldn't feel a thing. After watching him in the car earlier today, she already knew he'd loved her. Believed it, even. And if anything, the proof in these letters made her angry. It all seemed so senseless until she hit this passage:

_I used to want an Aston Martin so bad. Do you remember that? Carlisle and Esme said no, and I was so pissed. I deserved an AM, damn it. So I decided since it was my money anyway, I'd get one whether they liked it or not. I just had to transfer funds between accounts without them finding out. So I did it while we were in Alaska for Christmas._

_But it didn't work out the way I thought it would because I saw something I shouldn't have. I'd never have known if I hadn't been hacking a computer so I could have that damned car. My parents never found out what I did, because someone else caught me. _

The doorbell rang and Bella dropped the letters onto the coffee table then approached the door in a sort of altered state. Her brain raced and it was as if she were electrically charged. She was alert and aware to a degree that alarmed her. She felt dangerous, like a walking pipe bomb.

And there he stood. Edward.

"Your car keys are in the box." Bella turned her head to indicate the rocking chair just as she caught sight of the reporter standing behind Edward, holding said box. "You brought the _reporter_? You're going to talk to _him_?"

The awful surge that began in Rosalie's apartment overwhelmed Bella and she slapped Edward's face with all her strength. "ME!" She hit him again, swinging over and over and shouting, "You should have talked to ME! Me, Edward! All these years!"

She had no idea what she was saying anymore. A torrent of useless words accompanied her frenzied, if not very effective, attack. She was hitting Edward and yelling at him on her front porch, loud enough for her quiet neighborhood to hear. She vaguely wondered if someone would call the police.

It didn't matter. He would leave and it wouldn't matter ever again. She could run away, too. Move to South America under an alias and never lay eyes on the Olympic Peninsula or Edward Cullen ever again.

The first slap came as a surprise, but also a relief. As much as her words and oddly girlish assault hurt him, because they made clear how much Bella was hurt, they also revealed that she cared. Deeply.

It was more than he deserved or had allowed himself to hope for. Though he pulled back to minimize the impacts, her let her hit him as he tried to reason with her. "I'll tell you everything, Bella. Everything. Just-"

It wasn't long before she began to fatigue and swing wild. And while he'd gladly let her hit him, though it did actually hurt, he didn't want her to injure herself while she was at it. Her arm swung wide for another slap to his chest and Edward caught her hand.

"Let go!" Bella thrashed to free herself from his grip, her eyes wild.

"Stop! You have to listen to me. I don't want you to get hurt."

She laughed at him, a miserable, painful laugh as she swung at him with the other arm. "You don't want me to get _hurt_?" He dodged the blow and grabbed her wrist.

With both arms restrained, she thrashed hard and kicked at him, repeating the question with increasing incredulity.

"God, Edward. Do you have any idea?" Something kindled in her then, he could see it in her eyes, and she fought even harder. She almost got one arm away, and they were close to the door jamb. She'd break a knuckle if she clipped it.

And he was suddenly keenly aware that anyone who happened to look might think he and Emmett were hurting her. The last thing they needed was police or publicity.

She was frenzied now, thrashing and crying out, "Let go of me!"

Something in Edward's brain kindled, too, as he struggled to hold onto her.

Never. He had never let Bella go, not really. He never could. And now he had to make her see, make her listen.

He would make her if necessary.

Edward grappled with her until he had both of her wrists in one hand, and used his body to steer her inside, his free arm around her waist to keep her from falling.

"Bella, stop. Please. You'll hurt yourself." The words came out harshly because of the effort of restraining her, but they didn't seem to have an effect. Reflexively, he held her tighter. "Bella!" She was shaking her head now, eyes closed, refusing him when he needed her attention most.

He muscled her to the far wall of the foyer and pinned her there with his hips so he could take his arm from her waist. His grip on her wrists was growing sweaty from the effort, and he switched hands, trapping her against the wall.

She was still shaking her head so he grabbed her chin, forcing her to be still. "Bella, look at me!" It was a command, and it surprised him. He'd never spoken to her this way. He squeezed her jaw slightly and her eyes flew open.

Their faces were so close together. Edward, panting from the exertion, took at her flushed cheeks, her wild eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing shallow and rapid. Her chest was pressed against his, and he could feel that she wasn't wearing a bra.

He didn't know who moved or how it happened, but their mouths crashed together. Bella strained up to meet him with a moan that sounded like pure need. He leaned his weight against her more fully and devoured her mouth before releasing her hands so he could touch her face, her neck, her collarbones.

Her mouth left his, but only to travel across his jaw and down his neck. He groaned with pleasure and something in his chest released. Bella was in his arms and he could breathe again. He couldn't help touching her face, pressing his hips into her. There couldn't be enough contact.

Except her hands weren't on him. He'd released them, but they were still behind her as if they were restrained. An image of her bound on the pedestal in the art gallery flashed through his thoughts and his desire surged even as his mind pulled him up short.

Edward stepped back abruptly and Bella uttered an inarticulate sound of despair.

He couldn't have that. Never again.

Edward bent and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth. His heart did something crazy in his chest when she let him, though her eyes were suddenly wary. "Give me your hands," he coaxed, and she squirmed to free them, but let them fall at her sides. She looked like the deer that sometimes approached the meadow when he'd been there long enough without moving, edging along the treeline but ready to bolt.

Slowly, he reached for her hands, raised them and kissed the back of each, then turned them over and kissed each palm.

Then he pulled her toward him and murmured in her ear. "Where can we go to talk?"

Emmett had heard-and seen-more than enough. He kicked the front door closed and dropped the box with a resounding thud, not really caring if he broke anything inside. He'd agreed to let Cullen talk to Bella before speaking with him, but he had some terms of his own, and they didn't include leaving or waiting out a reunion fuckfest-cum-second-honeymoon. Though there hadn't been a first honeymoon if LexisNexis was correct, and LexisNexis was always correct.

He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together and said, "Ooookay. I think we need to set some ground rules."

Cullen and Bella both nodded, but neither one took their eyes off the other.

As Emmett says, oooooookay. Sorry it's been a while, and many thanks for all the kind reviews and notes of encouragement. They are gifts, and I appreciate each one.

Last time, I mentioned that I'd had complaints about my A/Ns and wasn't going to do story recs here. But y'all shouted that one down, so here are some stories that I adore:

Boxing Out, by MeilleurCafe, features an introverted but smart and funny Bella, and my new favorite Edward, a New York City cop who loves art, has a wicked sense of humor, and plays basketball with his buddies at the Fourth Street Courts. With his shirt off, people. *swoon* You know how some guys just have _it_? Copward has the _it_ factor. I haven't been this irrationally attracted to a character since Fifty, or The Professor from UoEM. He's wonderful, and so is this story.

Exposure, by RandomCran and MorganLocklear, is pure entertainment. In fact, it features Bella as a publicist to the most deliciously obnoxious Carlisle ever. Ever. And an unassuming young actor named Edward. MOG's wicked sense of humor and Cran's ability to capture the telling details have my bouncing in my seat for the next chapter.

Pocket Change, by aBlankWhitePage, is so lyrical and compelling. There's so much angst here, but it's so beautifully written and the payoffs are so right for these characters that I'm tempted to read it all over again even though it's not quite finished yet. This is her first fanfic, and she's definitely a talent to watch. I'll read anything she writes.

Plummy6, formerly known as Twanza, is reposting her wonderful stories, including The Neverending Math Equation and Pressed for Time. You. Must. Read. These. She's a remarkably gifted writer, and her stories just blow me away.

Jennde needs no introduction in the fandom, but her stories just get better and better. Her current WIP is Proud, and I love it. Edward works as a carpenter/cabinet maker, though he's a concert-level pianist. Or was before he dropped out of Juliard to become a single father. He's sweet, proud and trying to do right by his daughter, Maddie, when he starts working for Bella. He's definitely a DILF, but that's almost beside the point. The story is full of quiet truths and tender moments that stop my heart but also make me smile.

Until next time, be well!

Xo

writingbabe 


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank to my marvelous beta SerendipitousMC and insightful prereader Isabeausink for their usual game-saving help with this chapter. And to special thanks to domysticated. She knows why. :-)  
**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own some spiffy new red capri pants, a Jetta with an attitude problem and the plot to this story.**

**chapter 12**

"Mr. Cullen! Right this way."

Emmett had followed Cullen's crazy-ass mutilated Aston Martin through increasingly sketchy neighborhoods supposedly en route to the offices of Jason J. Jenks, attorney at law, wondering if Cullen planned to ditch him in an alley. At this point, if any ditching was to be done, Jenks' jittery little secretary would apparently be helping.

After Cullen introduced Emmett and explained what was needed, she led them down a dim hallway to an empty office consisting of a dusty desk with an even dustier phone perched on one corner, a rolling chair with one wheel missing and a credenza stacked with cases of copier paper and all manner of office supplies.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?" The woman's voice had a quaver to it that made Emmett feel a bit guilty. She couldn't be under any illusions that normal business was being conducted at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night. How often was she summoned to clandestine off-hours client visits at the law offices of Jason J. Jenks, attorney at law? He glanced at the oversized blinds on the windows. Often enough, he supposed.

"Nothing for me, Shelley," Cullen said, his tone all reassurance. "Just the boxes, please."

When she scuttled out, Emmett took a seat in the chair and tested the wobble while eyeing Cullen.

"It's not as well appointed as his downtown office, but it's more discreet," Cullen offered by way of apology. "Eleazar ..."

Shelley returned lugging two bankers boxes and hefted them onto the desk. "If I can get anything for you, just buzz me." She pointed to a button on the phone then beat a hasty retreat.

Unintentionally intimidating women was one of the few things Emmett disliked about his size and stature. Combined with the hour and their obviously sketchy mission, he could only imagine what she thought he was: drug dealer? consigliere?

"Shelley?" He waited for her to poke her head back in. "Thank you."

Cullen was already at the door. "I need to get back to Bella. On Monday, we can meet to talk about all of this." He waved his hand in the direction of the boxes.

Emmett nodded his agreement and watched Cullen depart before lifting the lid of the first one and digging in.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

She'd hit him. She'd kissed him.

Years of training, years of hard-earned self control, and all it took to leave her helpless against her own heart was Edward Cullen.

Bella squirmed in her comfortable pajamas; the silence of her empty house seemed to rub her skin like sandpaper. She had the ridiculous urge to dress in one of the intimidatingly stylish suits she wore to class just to get a grip on herself before Edward returned.

If he returned.

Bella tried not to let that terror too close: the fear that he'd disappear again instead of keeping his promise to tell her everything.

He'd left with Emmett more than two hours before, saying he'd be back in an hour. And though Bella wanted to believe him and tried not to watch the clock, she grew steadily more frantic as the minutes passed. Now that she'd tasted hope, the fear was worse than it had ever been.

Where was her control?

Bella sank into a chair, booted her laptop and stared at the current chapter of the book she was writing. She couldn't make the words mean anything. She attempted to grade her students' most recent papers, but she couldn't comprehend the arguments. She paced her office. She went to the refrigerator and gazed at food that had no appeal.

The minute hand continued its inexorable journey, and Bella's certainty grew. She'd made a fool of herself again. He'd returned her kiss, but only out of instinct because she'd flung herself at him. Edward wasn't coming back, and she would drown this time.

From the kitchen, she stared out the window at her empty driveway until her heart pounded and her hand shook. She was on the verge of hyperventilating. Bella hurried to her office and fumbled with her phone, scrolling through contacts, suddenly desperate to have a task that would require every ounce of her attention.

Paul. He said she could call if she needed anything.

She dialed, put the phone on speaker and was naked and on her knees by the time he said, "Bella?"

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Emmett couldn't help but admire Cullen's cunning. He'd privately wondered how the guy who kissed the shit out of Bella squared with the seemingly passive man who had, if what Cullen told him was true, lived under Eleazar Denali's thumb for a decade.

But the files before Emmett showed that Cullen had been anything but passive. The guy had been as quietly ruthless as a Mossad assassin, stealthily gathering incriminating evidence and biding his time. He'd also defrauded the defrauder.

Cullen had given Emmett an overview of his method before they set out for Jenks' office, and every word he'd spoken was borne out in the files. Since Denali Group policy dictated that no paperwork left the office with employees, Cullen had needed a method to spirit evidence of Eleazar's fraud out of the office without raising the alarm. So he had constructed a dummy client account with his own money, laundered several times to wash away any trace of a connection to Cullen himself, and mailed evidence to the dummy client disguised as statements.

Since The Denali Group only issued "statements" by request, handling his own clients' paperwork hadn't raised any concerns, especially since Cullen had first worked to convince Eleazar that he was loyal.

Cullen had explained why this was necessary, and Emmett's stomach clenched for the guy. He'd been between a rock and a hard place, because Eleazar's involvement with the Cullen family, especially Carlisle, Edward's father, meant he could hurt the people Cullen cared for most. After one attempted rebellion, Denali had forced Cullen to attend the London School of Economics. After the last one, he'd convinced Cullen's father to roll all of his other investments into Denali. Aside from any real estate holdings and cash in the bank, Cullen's parents would lose everything in the collapse.

At that point, Cullen began a campaign to cement Eleazar's trust, knowing it was too late to protect himself or his father, but determined to make a record that might, if not vindicate him, at least prove his story when the scheme finally came crashing down.

Once Cullen was beyond suspicion, he grew more daring still. Cullen had the "client" request payouts rather than reinvesting "returns" as Eleazar encouraged. Once Cullen had cashed the returns out of Denali Group, he combined them with the offshore account he'd created, and invested prudently. Cullen called the accout DCRF, which he said it stood for Denali Client Restitution Fund. Essentially, he'd embezzeled from the fraud in hope of repaying a small part of what clients lost when the crash inevitably came. Emmett shook his head in admiration.

Then he surveyed the stacks of printouts and photocopies before him. Cullen had preserved a breathtaking amount of evidence of Denali's fraud. Sadly, it also implicated Cullen, who could only keep his cover by participating in the fraud. No doubt that was exactly what Denali intended. If Cullen's story was true, Cullen was the only one who knew Eleazar's secret. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Emmett had spent the first hour with these boxes opening each envelope to the dummy investor. Cullen had simply collected them and stored them, never opening the envelopes after the first two or three proved to hold exactly what he'd mailed out. Somehow, this gave Emmett confidence in what the envelopes contained. The dates, the postmarks: it would have been nearly impossible to tinker with the evidence after it left The Denali Group's offices.

He took care, keeping each stack of papers with its original envelope. This wasn't just material for a story: it was evidence of criminal wrongdoing. Evidence at least half a dozen regulatory and law-enforcement agencies would be clamoring for.

Now he stood and stretched, checking his watch. Shit: 12:48 a.m. He wondered how often this happened to Shelley, and stepped out into the corridor to find her-right after he used the restroom.

After taking care of business, he washed his hands and splashed some water on his face to wake himself up for the drive. With any luck, he wouldn't have too much trouble finding the hotel room he'd booked earlier, while Cullen and Bella spoke privately. He wondered how they were getting on. Or if they were just _getting it on_. That kiss could have set the water of Puget Sound on fire, and it sent a pang through him now as he thought of Rosalie Hale.

He hoped she was sleeping peacefully. He hoped she thought of him before she fell asleep.

Shelley sat slumped in her chair, her chin still propped in her hand, gently snoring. Emmett sighed. "Shelley?" He said it quietly, then not so quietly, but she didn't stir. Loathe as he was to startle a second woman in 24 hours, he touched her shoulder. "Shelley?"

She opened her eyes and drew in a breath, regarding him as if her eyes hadn't been closed any longer than a blink. "Can I get you something?"

Emmett went along with the charade. "No, I'm done for tonight. Is there a key for that office? It's best if no one handles those documents except myself or Mr. Cullen."

Shelley opened her pencil drawer, retrieved a keyring and scurried up the hall to lock the office. When she returned, she asked, "What time will you be in tomorrow?" Clearly, Jenks had given her some idea of what was Emmett would be doing at their offices.

"No later than nine." Emmett had a lot of ground to cover, and the clock was ticking. The Dow had closed down more than 80 points on Friday, closing the week nearly 400 points lower than it started, and the overseas exchanges were expecting losses come Monday. The snowball was getting bigger and bigger. Any day now, it would be big enough to trip up multiple economies. If he wanted to break this story before regulators and prosecutors seized the evidence, he had to do it before economic collapse exposed The Denali Group for what it was: a giant Ponzi scheme. And maybe it made him a jerk, but Emmett did want to break the story: he'd been digging into Eleazar's finances for nearly two years now, and his instincts had been right on the money.

Emmett waited as Shelley gathered her things and locked the office. He walked her to her car then turned toward his rental, which had been parked next to Cullen's ramshackle Aston Martin.

The AM was still there.

Shit.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

A loud "Hey!" and thumping overhad jolted Edward awake. He looked out on a surreal nightscape: a broken and weedy parking lot, rundown buildings, plenty of broken glass and scattered trash. Where the hell was he?

Edward looked at his hands in his lap. They loosely cradled the GPS. He must have fallen asleep while trying to program a route back to Bella's house. He'd fallen asleep and she was waiting.

Fuck.

"Cullen, are you okay?" Three more thumps were followed by McCarty's face peering in the driver's window.

Edward let the window down with a whirr. "What time is it?"

"It's one in the morning." McCarty squinted at him strangely. "Why are you here?"

Edward held up the GPS and shrugged. "I guess I fell asleep." He shook his head and tacked on another "fuck!"

It wasn't surprising, really: he'd gone nearly two days and nights without sleeping more than an hour or two. Insomnia had been his shadow for years.

"You should call her." McCarty eyed him, brows furrowed. "Do you want me to drive you?"

Strangely, as Edward evaluated himself, he felt fully awake. Stiff from sleeping slouched over in a car, but actually refreshed. He just had to hope that Bella had waited for him.

Please God. Let her be there.

"I'm good. I should go." Edward nodded back toward Jenks' office. "What do you think?"

"You did good, Cullen," McCarty said, his voice serious. "He's going down."

Edward nodded grimly. Yes, Eleazar was going down. Edward would go with him, but why not? He'd kissed Bella today for the first time in ten years, then he'd fallen asleep instead of returning to her as promised to finish what he'd started. Near misses seemed like his destiny.

McCarty seemed to share Edward's pessimism, and nodded as if this fact saddened him. Edward sighed. McCarty believed him: that was something, right?

"Thanks." Edward raised a hand in a half-hearted goodbye then turned the key. Once McCarty was in his rearview mirror, he dialed Bella's phone. Of course, there was no answer.

The Aston Martin looked decrepit, but there was nothing wrong with the drive train, and in this part of Seattle, cops had much bigger worries than Hair Shirt traveling at outrageous speeds. Edward shifted into gear and put his foot to the floor.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Bristling with anxiety, Alice paced from the windows, through the kitchen, out the back door to the river and back, again and again, propping the door open after the first few passes so it didn't keep banging. She was afraid it was disturbing Jasper, who had disappeared into his study after Bella's call, emerging only when Alice summoned him when Edward phoned from the ferry.

Jasper had refused to tell her what Bella said to him, though she begged, badgered, cajoled and pouted. He hadn't told Edward, either.

And now she was afraid her badgering had driven Jasper away. Again.

When Alice's circuit returned her to the kitchen door once more, she silently closed it and returned to the living room. Normally she sprawled on the couch, a tailored sectional large enough to comfortably seat nine. But tonight she compacted herself into a corner, knees drawn up to her chin. Minutes or hours passed as a strange clarity settled over her. She'd made a decision.

Several, actually.

First, she was bringing on a new designer to help with the firm. A head designer, because she was done planning other people's wardrobes. The fun of it hadn't lasted. She still enjoyed the creative process, but what engaged her mind most was predicting trends-and not just in predicting the rise of sage green versus lemongrass or linen versus bamboo. She understood what came next, big things, important things, in a way that was reliable if not exactly scientific. She just _knew_.

Second, she would have a baby, with Jasper or without him. She was ready. Now was her time. Being out from under the day-to-day design work, being able to consult with clients regarding trends, would give her the balance she'd need to manage her ever-growing need to nurture.

That need, once subsumed in her love for Jasper, and her compassion for his challenges, had grown but also evolved. She'd finally stopped trying to fix him or herself and given Jasper what amounted to an ultimatum: no weed, no Maria. And for the first time ever, she believed she could survive without him. She didn't want that, but she would survive it. And she'd channel her devotion and energy into this baby. This person she could guide and give to. This person she could love.

And if Jasper stayed, and if he kept his promises, she'd have a true partner.

If.

Alice tightened her arms around her knees and rested her head on them.

If.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Jasper stared at his bank of monitors, hardly daring to believe what he saw. He'd been at it since Edward and Bella left, his only break coming when Bella called, and once more when Edward called. He'd hardly even heard Alice's campaign for information. He'd been too close to figuring it out, right on the brink. Now, he shook his head in wonder and relief.

A fucking Ponzi scheme. He'd been puzzling over the game for weeks now, using it as a proxy to work out all of his unanswered questions about Eleazar and the seemingly inescapable hold he had on Edward. Now he was sure he knew, thanks to his villains in The Vampires of Wall Street. Jasper did his some of his best problem-solving when he was in someone else's head.

He also knew without a shadow of a doubt that his new game would be an even bigger hit than the first. People loved seeing the mighty fall, and the greedy get what they deserve. That wasn't likely to happen to Eleazar. Jasper knew him better than that. But it would happen in his game.

Best of all, he was certain he could help Edward.

Jasper glanced at the clock in the corner of the nearest monitor. Shit. He'd lost all track of time, and Alice hadn't come in to check on him once. Jasper's hair prickled at the back of his neck.

He'd left her in a bit of a pout because he couldn't tell her what Bella had told him. He'd promised, and he was making a bigger effort than ever before to keep his promises, even small ones. He was trying to be the man Alice deserved. He'd also been chasing the mystery. For his game, but also for Edward and Alice.

But how would she know that?

Jasper pushed his chair back and stood to stretch. He'd been sitting for far too long. After saving everything, backing it up to an external drive and sending it up to his corporate server, Jasper walked into the kitchen and quietly called out to the dark, "Alice?"

The house remained silent. He checked her bedroom, but it stood empty, door open and lights off. Jasper returned to the kitchen and turned on the lights. He needed to find Alice, but his stomach gave a prodigious growl and he realized his hadn't eaten in more than 12 hours. He opened the fridge, hastily assembled the ingredients for a sandwich and turned to the cutting board.

That's when he noticed the faint footprints.

They were too small to belong to anyone but Alice. Or an army of Alices. And they led in two directions.

She'd been pacing, seldom a good sign. She did a lot of that when she fretted over him.

Jasper wiped his hands on a towel, sandwich instantly forgotten, and opened the back door. The night was bright, though thin clouds obscured the moon, and he had a clear line of sight to the river.

She wasn't there.

Was she angry with him? Or worse, were her feelings hurt? He'd had about enough of hurting Alice, even if he'd done it for the right reason this time. He'd find her, and if necessary, he'd tell her what Bella had said. Alice was the most important thing now. His True North.

At the river, Jasper looked for a trail, but Alice's footprints disappeared at the bank. Of course, if she was walking the rocks along the bank, which she always did barefoot, who knew how far away she could be?

Damn it. He'd blown it with her again. Could he have come so far only to have this be the proverbial straw? The time when he'd done the right thing?

_Poetic justice, son_, he thought.

Jasper debated with himself, but decided trying to find her now would be futile. He didn't know which way she'd gone, and didn't want her coming back to an empty house. If she came back.

She had to come back, he reminded himself. His Alice wouldn't be seen in public with dirty feet and no handbag.

To convince himself, Jasper peered into the garage on his way back to the house. Her car was still there, so he went inside intending to wait in the darkened living room.

And there she was in the far corner of the sofa, curled into the tightest ball a grown person could make. A streak of moonlight passed through a cloud, making it all the way from the windows to Alice's dirty feet. She looked tiny and vulnerable.

Jasper's breath caught in his throat. Alice was so competent, so exuberant, so able to leap tall buildings in a single bound that he rarely considered her fragile. How unfair that he'd relied on her abundant energy and seemingly boundless reserve of strength. How wrong that he'd never calculated the cost.

He loved Alice for many things, but until this moment, he'd never loved her for her vulnerability because so often, he'd chosen not to see it. It was easier to believe that he couldn't really hurt her.

Never again. He'd said it to her, vowed it to himself, but now he knew. He would never make that mistake again.

From now on, he would take care of Alice, too.

He silently crossed to the stairs, climbed to Alice's room and stood in the doorway. He wanted so desperately to be invited into that bed again. But even more than that, he wanted to deserve the invitation. Deserve her, his Alice. He entered her en suite bathroom and started the water in the tub, then returned to the living room.

Jasper bent to Alice and unclasped her arms from her knees. She sighed and her brow furrowed for a moment before she resumed even breathing. Then he slid his arms under her shoulders and knees and pulled her to his chest. Her face, he was relieved to note, wasn't tear-streaked, but she seemed lighter than usual.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then proceeded up the stairs and into her bathroom. She had a bench there, placed before a vanity where she did her makeup. He sat on it, and gently eased her yoga pants down, leaving her underwear in place. She began to stir as he tried to free her from her sweater, but he hushed her. "Let me do this, darlin'. Let me wash you."

Her eyes opened, and though the room was dim, he read wary assent. Her bra and panties darkened as he lowered her into the water, settling her so her head rested against a towel. She watched him with wide, dark eyes as he wet a washcloth and selected a bar of soap.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, and she did it without hesitation. He washed her face with tender care, feeling her forehead, nose, cheekbones and delicate jaw through the washcloth. He rinsed the cloth and dabbed her face again, removing the remaining suds. She looked impossibly young, wet eyelashes against her pink cheeks. Then she opened her eyes and she was a woman again.

Jasper reached for her hand, washed one arm and the other. He beckoned her forward and washed her back. When she reclined again, he reached into the water and cupped her calf. When she resisted for a moment, he murmured, "I want to wash your feet."

Alice began to protest, but Jasper pleaded with his eyes, and he felt her leg relax. He warmed the washcloth again, lathered, then lifted her foot. He placed it on his lap as he sat on the edge of the tub, not caring that his jeans were getting soaked. Then he wrapped her foot in the cloth and massaged: ankle, heel, instep and arch, and finally her small, small toes. He wanted to hold her like this for a long time, but saw goosebumps on her leg and returned her foot to the water.

He hadn't looked at her face while he did any of this, but he looked now as he reached for her other foot. She let him take it, her large, luminous eyes drinking him in as if she'd never seen him before.

As if he were a thing of wonder.

Jasper's ears pinked. Hope was almost beside the point now. Jasper tamped it down because he wanted to do this _for her_. So he kept his head bowed and gave the foot in his lap the same loving attention he'd given the first.

When he returned it to the water, he felt suddenly shy. He didn't know what to do next. Leave so she could get out of the tub privately? Tell her that he'd break his promise to Bella if Alice wanted him to? Explain that he hadn't because he wanted to be the man Alice deserved?

At last, he simply met Alice's gaze.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

"Yes, Sir."

Yes, he'd given her his number and said to call him if she needed anything. But Paul never expected Bella to do it. She was so capable, so flawless under command. Awe-inspiring, really. Though she'd never subbed for him, he'd played with her at a party or two and she was one of the best subs he'd ever witnessed in action.

Her ability to focus was almost otherworldly. She'd always struck him as a distant star, untouchable.

Still, he knew that slightly off, slightly too high voice. He'd know it in anyone, the voice of panic. Given what had happened at the gallery, Paul wasn't especially surprised. The emotional fallout had begun. He knew how smart Bella was and pictured her mind as a highly tuned mechanism running away with her.

She needed a stick in the spokes to stop it. She needed direction. Now.

He dropped his voice to its deepest register. "What's wrong, girl?"

"I- this girl-"

I? It was a mistake Bella would never make. As Paul strained to listen, he heard her breathing, short and irregular. She'd faint if she kept that up.

"Listen closely, girl. Do exactly as I say."

"Yes, Sir." Her words shook, but Paul detected a measure of improvement. She definitely needed the role now, but he was at the disadvantage. He had a general idea of her limits, but no idea of the regular routines she shared with Jacob or her previous Doms.

"Do you have a training collar, Bella?"

"Yes, Sir." Her jagged sigh helped Paul, his mind now on a clear path that might help him meet Bella's need.

Did your Master permit you a toybox?" Some Doms forbade subs from having or using toys in their absence. Others required it so they could hold scenes remotely.

"Yes, Sir."

Paul's shoulders dropped in relief. Apparently, Jacob was among the latter. "Fetch them and tell me when you are back in position. Crawl, girl."

"Yes, Sir."

Her words were steadier each time she answered him, and he took a moment to gather himself as the sounds of her travel receded and eventually returned more awkwardly. Crawling while carrying something took effort, Paul knew. He was counting on effort, something Bella gave willingly, and which could focus her mind.

Effort, and pain.

"This girl is in position, Sir."

"Very good. Put on your collar. Tell me when you are done."

A faint rustle and clank, then, "Done, Sir."

"Do you have clover clamps, girl?"

"Yes, Sir." Multiple pairs, he discovered, as well as weights.

Paul stifled a relieved sigh. "One pair on your nipples. Another pair on your outer labia. Tell me when you have them on."

The quiet clinking of the chains between clamps and the involuntary hisses assured Paul that Bella was doing as he instructed, though really, he didn't need the assurance. Bella sought his help. She craved this. While he waited for her, he wondered about the man from Bella's past. Was he a Dom? Paul hoped so, for both their sakes.

"Done, Sir."

"Weight them, girl. The heaviest weight you've used."

Bella acknowledged the command and Paul listened as she complied. The slight tightness in her voice when she reported the task finished betrayed her physical discomfort, but Paul knew that the crisis was receding. Whatever prompted Bella to call him well past midnight was less threatening to her now.

"Hands and knees, girl."

Muted rustling indicated her movements. When silence fell again, Paul said, "Three points of contact. One hand or one knee up at all times. Switch as needed, but do not break your position." The balancing alone would require immense concentration. But the clamps and weights, moving and pulling each time she shifted her weight, would require even more. There wouldn't be room in Bella's head for any stray thoughts.

Paul quietly moved his computer's mouse and clicked on a timer app. He set it to alert silently, as a pop-up on his screen, in 20 minutes. It would feel like an eternity to any sub, even Bella.

Normally when he worked with subs over the phone, he required them to use a webcam so he could appreciate them while they did his bidding. With Bella, he had wisely chosen not to, though Paul could definitely imagine how beautiful she looked, naked on her hands and knees at his command. Four minutes in, her skin was probably already damp with exertion, her nipples full and red in the clamps, her labia beginning to glisten ...

Paul shook his head and adjusted himself in his pajama pants. Jacob was a friend, and more importantly, Bella was trusting him in an hour of need. Trusting him to do the right thing. And being a Dom was first and foremost about trust.

Paul fired up a game of Sudoku and forced himself to concentrate on it.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

Edward turned the key Bella had given him and stepped inside. The house was dark except for the gas fire, which was set very low. Edward dreaded turning on a light, so he moved carefully through the house. The kitchen stood empty. Bella's papers remained in a disheveled stack on the coffee table. Her office door was ajar, but she wasn't inside. He passed what was clearly a guest bedroom and a bathroom, then approached a closed door.

With a shaking hand, he turned the knob.

She lay in the center of a bed far too large for one person, a pillow clutched to her chest. Just her dark hair and her nose and closed eyes were visible above the covers.

Edward ached to touch her, but would have to put a knee on the bed to reach her. So he watched first, remembering her sleep back in Forks, in the first terrible weeks of his exile from her.

Back then, her sorrow had a freshness to it, a sense that she must thrive in the end, the way plants can't help growing. But now she had the face of a doomed angel, beautiful but set in the contours of sorrow.

As his eyes adjusted, Edward took in more of the room. A notebook and pen lay on another pillow, as if she'd been writing something before she went to sleep. And a-oh Jesus-a vibrator lay on her nightstand.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, which didn't help. The room smelled like sex. Bella's sex.

Beside the vibrator lay clips strung together by a chain, and two heavy pendants, and Edward's mind flashed to certain pornographic images he'd once been quite fascinated with-images he'd used to relieve himself when trying not to think of Bella or Tanya or anything else in his entire fucked up existence. Suddenly, his dick ached.

But none of that mattered as Bella's mouth pursed and her breathing changed.

A dream.

He might not have earned it, and it might never happen again. In the morning, Bella might throw him out for good. But he'd watched her nightmares in helpless agony too many times all those years ago.

He wasn't helpless anymore.

Edward toed off his shoes and socks and emptied his pockets on the nightstand. He stripped off his shirt and let his pants fall to the floor. Then he lifted the covers and slid across the bed to draw Bella into his arms.

She whimpered, her dream taking its usual course, but he held her, stroking her bare back-oh, god, she was naked-and whispering into her hair.

With his eyes closed, he could feel every contour of her body pressed against him, and every stage of the dream. Her breath came short and hard across his collar bones at first, then slower and harder still as her body tensed and jerked, until finally she seemed to give up with a profound sigh. Then she relaxed into his arms and slept.

He felt it when she registered his presence, and again when she wordlessly accepted it.

Then he tightened his arm around her and began his quiet confession.

*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*

**A/N: SerendipitousMC isn't just a wonderful beta, she's also a talented writer. Her story Boxing Out features Edward as an irresistible Manhattan cop, and her Bella is one of those smart introverts we all admire. It's a love story about how real people find a real connection. She's also done a multi-part interview with Sylvain Reynard, which you can find on his website. For anyone who loves The Professor, it's not to be missed.**

**The fic High Fidelity by IReen H owns me right now. The writing is so good and the characters so fresh and original. I can't really tell you anything without spoiling the incredible experience of reading this fic. If you haven't started it yet, start now. You won't believe how good it is.**

**Another fic that's breaking my heart is Dusty, by YellowBella. I generally avoid high school fics, but this isn't like any other high school story you've read. Drugs, parents and the connections and disconnections between love and sex lie at the heart of this heartbreaker, which is a collaboration between YellowGlue and TeamBella23.**

**Am I allowed to rec an actual ink-on-paper book here? Because I'm still thinking about _The Song of Achilles_ by Madeline Miller months after I read it. This is Achilles and Patroclus like you've never seen them before. The suspense lasts until the last paragraph—no mean feat given that anyone who's read the Iliad already knows how this story ends. Amazing writing.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to my talented beta and fellow writer serendipitousMC for her help with this chapter. As always, she made it better. I hope you're reading her wonderful story Boxing Out. Her Copward owns my heart. OWNS. j/s My darling prereader isabeausink, I hope your DSL line is fixed soon. I miss you like crazy cakes.**

**Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own a working air conditioner, a cooler of half-melted ice and the plot of this story.**

**Chapter 13**

The old dream took an unprecedented turn: when Bella came up from the familiar depths, Edward wasn't gone. He was everywhere: his chest beneath her head, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, his body the solid warmth she curled against. Her reflexive panic momentarily surged, but short-circuited as Edward's arm tightened around her and his lips pressed to her hair.

He was back. A single tear crossed the bridge of her nose and disappeared into Edward's chest hair. She pressed her hand over his heart and inhaled a shaky breath full of his familiar, nearly forgotten scent. Her head seemed to float up on his inrush of breath, then settled even closer with his sigh.

He began.

His voice came to her primarily through his chest, his words unfurling without haste or hesitation while his heart beat steadily under her hand. Pressed skin to skin, except for the chaste barrier of Edward's boxers, Bella could have no doubt. This was Edward's truth.

And it was Bella's own history rewritten. As the gloom of moonlight behind clouds traversed her ceiling, she understood how a headstrong boy bent on having his way made a terrible discovery, one that cost him a nearly unbearable price. She clung to Edward, because his very skin made her believe him, made her ache for what he'd suffered.

She'd been so wrong. Every interpretation she'd made, every seemingly inescapable conclusion she'd drawn had been fatally flawed because of circumstances she could never have imagined. Bella kissed the skin over Edward's heart, but then she remained still and listened. When was the last time she'd truly listened to anything but the swirl of her own thoughts? If it weren't for Edward's body, she imagined she'd feel wind rushing around her, as if every window of her house had been flung open during a gale.

Finally, there was no more to say, and they lay silent. Bella felt Edward's breathing slow and become even, and she shifted to cradle him as he'd held her during his confession, one hand stroking his hair and face.

He looked younger in repose, but not boyish. She traced an eyebrow with her fingertip. He was a broken man, and as she considered his story, she knew there would be consequences. He would be taken from her again, but _taken_was the essential word. This time, she'd know Edward didn't want to go.

As the grey and lavender of dawn brightened the room, Bella gazed at Edward's face. She kissed his forehead, his temple, his cheek. Then she pulled him closer and closed her eyes.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Edward stood at the kitchen counter, damp from a shower and wearing nothing but jeans, considering the complex controls on Bella's coffee maker in an attempt to get the thing to produce actual coffee.

But he was distracted by the notebook he'd set beside it - the notebook that had been on the pillow next to Bella when he'd finally arrived. He'd tossed it to the floor without a second thought when her nightmare began. But now she was sleeping, apparently peacefully, and a fearful curiosity about its contents nagged at him on what should have been the happiest morning of his life.

Bella had laid in his arms and listened to every word, melting into him as her hand traveled again and again to his heart. And sometime in the night, she'd drawn him into her arms, cradling him. He vaguely remembered her lips on his temple.

He'd woken in Bella's arms with the deep, soul-satisfying belief that he'd been silently but entirely forgiven.

But he'd also woken with a keen awareness of her naked body and his instinctual response to it. When he lifted his head, he saw the vibrator on her nightstand, and noticed what he hadn't last night: a collar. And when he stood to take himself and his morning wood to the bathroom, he stepped on the notebook.

With a sinking sensation, Edward realized his own confession wasn't enough. He needed to hear Bella's story.

After a few failed key sequences, Bella's coffee maker gurgled to life. Edward opened the cupboard above it, and as expected, found a coffee mug. The kitchen, with its quiet plums and taupes, exuded the subdued loveliness of grownup Bella. Edward gazed at the sparse but neatly arranged contents of the cupboard. Even the dishes looked like they should be hers.

When the machine hissed to a stop, Edward poured himself coffee and took his mug and the notebook to the table. A flash of Bella bound and naked at the gallery made him wince down his first gulp of coffee. It might be easier to learn about certain aspects of her life from a notebook than to hear it from Bella herself. He felt like a coward for thinking it, and a cad for wanting to learn these things behind the curtain of privacy, because he knew how his body might react.

His hand hovered over the cover as he rationalized. He needed to know, needed to adjust to what he learned so he could be as accepting of Bella's confession, when it came, as she had been last night. Edward walked up the hall and looked into Bella's bedroom. She was sleeping soundly, sweetly, curled around the pillow that had been his. His heart twisted with longing. He silently closed her door, returned to the kitchen and seated himself before the notebook. After a long, guilty moment, he flipped through back to front until he found the page she'd presumably been writing on last night.

But he didn't get to read it because the doorbell rang.

Edward abandoned the notebook on the kitchen table and hurried to the door, wondering what Emmett was doing back so soon and hoping the noise hadn't woken Bella. Was there a problem at Jenks'? He wasn't schedule to meet with Emmett until Monday. Today was his day with Bella.

Edward swung the door open to find the man who had punched him at the gallery. The one who displayed Bella naked and trussed-up before an audience. Who walked her on a leash.

"Jacob." Edward couldn't help it, the man's name came out in a snarl.

The question, "What are you doing here?" died on Jacob's lips as he took in Cullen's damp hair and bare chest. Apparently, Bella hadn't wasted any time.

"Jacob?" Her voice came from behind Cullen. It had a disoriented quality he'd never heard before, even when he'd woken her in the middle of the night to serve him. Had she ever truly slept when she'd spent the night in his room? Jacob wondered bitterly, but he knew the answer. He'd heard the name Edward too many times during her restless slumbers.

Her hair was sweetly mussed, her cheeks still pink with sleep, and she had nothing on under the bathrobe, Jacob was certain. It was how he'd longed to see her in his own home, rising from his own bed.

Cullen still stood squarely in the doorway, but Bella eased an arm around the bastard, pulling him back into the foyer as she said, "Please, come in," without meeting Jacob's eyes.

Cullen's arm wrapped protectively around her, positioning her slightly behind him as if shielding her, which lit a hot spark of indignation in Jacob's brain. As if Bella needed protection from anyone besides Cullen.

But the spark died as she looked up at him and seemed to speak with her eyes. Cullen's shoulders sagged and he nodded his agreement to whatever she'd conveyed to him. Then he kissed her forehead and excused himself to the kitchen.

When Cullen had disappeared, Bella finally met Jacob's gaze, then dropped her eyes, led him to the living room and offered him a seat. She remained standing, eyes on the floor.

If he told her to kneel, Jacob knew she would. And until this moment, he'd wanted that more than he could say. But now it was clear: her obedience would be out of loyalty, not out of love. It would be part of the game she played to punish herself for whatever Cullen had done to her. Jacob saw it, really saw it now. He'd been right, Bella could love. But she couldn't love _him_. He'd only been a means to an end. That was the whole point of the contract between them, but it still lacerated him.

"Look at me," he said, unable to conceal the gravel in his voice as he fought tears.

As Bella raised her face, a tear streaked down each cheek. She looked stricken. Good.

"He hurt you, Bella." Jacob had to pause and swallow to keep command of his voice. "And he'll do it again." In spite of his effort at control, the last words came out a whisper.

Bella shook her head, her hand over her mouth.

"He can't give you what you need, Bella."

A sob escaped her, and hope flared in Jacob's heart.

"I _know_you. You think I don't, but I do. I know your courage and intelligence, I know your body." Jacob touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. A shiver ran through her but she quickly regained her control. He stepped closer, his heart thudding with sudden hope. "He's just a bad dream, Bella," he breathed into her hair. "I'm here, and I'm real, and I would never, ever hurt you."

Then Bella cringed away.

Cringed, damn her.

Jacob stepped back and drew himself to his full, impressive height. "You've obviously made your choice," he said, his voice now even. "You'll regret it, Bella."

She shook her head fiercely. It was an act of defiance she would never before have permitted herself.

"I won't wait for you," he warned.

It was probably a lie. Jacob was pretty sure that part of him would be waiting for her for the rest of his life. He stood and beckoned her to him. She came, her eyes swimming with the wrong kind of tears. How dare she feel sorry for him?

Part of him desperately wanted to make her kneel-one last show of obedience, though it wouldn't come from her heart. Instead, he took her hand and kissed the knuckles almost spitefully. Then he turned on his heel and fled the house, crossing her lawn in just a few long strides. He swung a leg over his motorcycle, kicked it to life and didn't look back.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Dawn had given way to the golden light of sunrise while Alice watched Jasper sleep from the doorway of the guest bedroom. He was so beautiful with his chest bare, his hair rumpled, and the sun highlighting his blond stubble, which wouldn't normally be visible unless she were close enough to touch him.

Alice wanted to touch him. She wanted to step out of her clothes and slide between the sheets, curl against him and stroke his chest until he kissed her before he was even fully awake. But she remained in the doorway, considering. Was Jasper's change, which felt so real last night as he bathed her, as credible in the light of day? Or was she once again seeing what she hoped to see?

She couldn't make the old mistake again-being seduced by his beauty and his pitch-perfect gestures only to find he hadn't really changed. It mattered more this time. She'd stopped taking the Pill months ago.

She was going to have a child. The question was, should it be Jasper's child?

The single reasonable answer to that question had to be: only if he'd really changed this time.

Had he?

Jasper suddenly drew in a deep breath and though Alice pulled back, trying to remain out of sight, his eyes fluttered open and gazed at her.

"Darlin'?" His accent was stronger when he was sleepy, his voice raspy from disuse. The effect, as ever, was devastating. Every muscle in Alice's abdomen clenched, and she wanted nothing more than to put her lips to the tender skin in the valley between his bicep and shoulder and work her way slowly, lingering over the taste of his skin, up his neck and jaw to his mouth. Her breath came fast and uneven.

Jasper shifted from his diagonal sprawl across the bed, propping an extra pillow between his head and the headboard. "Come here, beautiful girl," he whispered, patting the sheet rather than raising it as he had always done in the past.

He wasn't trying to seduce her.

Part of Alice panicked at this realization-the reflexive fear that he'd choose Maria still lurking in her heart despite Jasper's reassurances. But another part of her recognized something else: this was respect. He wasn't using his wiles to avoid a problem or get what he wanted. And he wanted her now. A thin sheet couldn't hide the evidence, though he'd bent his knees, probably to disguise it if he could.

No pressure, no manipulation.

Alice took one step into the room, pushed her yoga pants down her legs and stepped out of them. "I stopped taking my birth control after you left London," she said, standing before him in panties and a T-shirt. "I mean, what was the point?" She shrugged the apology of a woman who'd been without her lover and partner for more than a year.

She lifted her shirt over her head and dropped it beside her pants. She wore no bra, and fought the impulse to cross her arms, deliberately resting her fingertips on her outer thighs. Alice wanted him to really look at her. She wasn't voluptuously sexy like Maria, but slight, no more than a handful of breast or hip. She needed him to look at her and choose.

Tears sprang to Jasper's eyes. "Alice," he whispered, and he held out a hand to her. An invitation. A request.

Alice took a step closer. "I need all of you this time." She cocked her head at him, a question.

"You would ..." Jasper's incredulous voice broke, but he swallowed hard and continued in a hoarse whisper. "I'm yours if you'll have me, darlin'. I want _everything_with you." A sob broke free, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He pushed away the sheet and made to stand, but Alice crossed to the bed as his feet touched the floor.

Jasper took her face in his hands as if she were the most precious treasure. "I'm so-"

Alice pressed a finger to his lips. "Let's be done with sorry now." She turned her head slightly to kiss his palm then faced him again.

"I love you, Jasper," she said, and placed a hand over his heart. Then she pushed him to lie back and climbed up, a knee on each side of his hips. "And I trust you." She held his gaze, willing him to see this truth in the moment her heart fully realized it.

His arms were around her then, one at her waist, a hand to the back of her head as he kissed her deeply while rolling her onto her back.

His weight, pressed against the cradle of her hips, so exactly right, so precisely what she needed, made the breath catch in Alice's throat. Tears trickled across her temples and into her hair when Jasper gazed down at her and whispered, "I love you so much."

She put a hand behind his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. It was delicious, flavored as it was with forgiveness and hope and Jasper.

"Let me love you, darlin'," he murmured, his lips at her neck and a hand at the elastic of her panties.

Alice nodded, and he worshipfully slipped them down her hips and legs, stood to remove his boxers, then returned to her arms. She kissed him then between his bicep and shoulder, the skin there even softer than lips, and he groaned in relief and need. The blessed sound reverberated in Alice's core as Jasper's mouth trailed down her throat, whispering endearments along its path.

Their fingers traced and savored, their skin communed. For long, wordless moments, they were lost in the true connection possible only through touch. At last, when touching was no longer enough, their lips parted and their eyes locked. Jasper hovered over her, both of them panting with desire. Alice nodded and Jasper slowly entered her, gasping "oh god" when their hips met.

The room and the sunlight and everything else fell away in the ecstasy of full reunion. Jasper strove above her; Alice strained upward to meet him. Again and again, a rhythm of rising pleasure until they finally flew together, shuddering and clinging, into the vast abyss of release.

Alice fell with a blinding flash of certainty: they would be better than they'd ever been before. And they would make a baby.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Rosalie turned on the shower and stripped out of her sweaty workout clothes. Though she could sleep in on Sundays since the gallery didn't open until noon, she'd been awake at dawn, strangely energized. A tough seven-mile run had done little to quell the hum Bella and, if she was honest with herself, Emmett, had awakened within her.

Emmett.

She stepped into the shower and washed herself in her usual matter-of-fact way, refusing to think about him. She could do most things without really looking at herself much, though she neither shied from nor paid undue attention to her scars. Not in the shower, at least. Gazing down her body, they were part of her. She soaped them with the same indifference as the rest of her body. But she steadfastly avoided looking at them in the mirror, which felt so much more like seeing herself through someone else's eyes.

Whatever had awakened in her was buzzing; and she paused, her hands still in the stream of water, lingering over the faded lines on her body.

They had been skilfully sutured, and had been so long healed that most weren't raised anymore. In the spray from the shower, she couldn't feel them under her fingertips unless she looked at them. This surprised her. Rosalie remembered so clearly how they'd felt when they were still sutured, and later when the new pink skin, still raised, stood out like angry graffiti against her pale skin.

Bella had stood before the mirrors in Rosalie's bathroom, brave in her ropes and leotard in spite of the shame she was clearly feeling. Bella had taken Rosalie's knife in her own shaking hand and cut herself free.

What would that feel like?

When she'd finished all of the necessary shaving and conditioning, she shut off the water, seized by an impulse that made her heart beat erratically. She stepped out of the shower stall and wrapped herself in a bath sheet, pulling her hair up in a second towel.

Normally, she left the bathroom now and dressed in her walk-in closet, which had lotion and deodorant in a drawer, her clothes laid out in the dressing area, and no mirror. After dressing, she typically returned to the bathroom to dry her hair and put on makeup.

But she stood now before the full-length bathroom mirror, clutching her towel like some shy girl in the school gym locker room-a girl she'd never been in her life. Her skin was warm and pink from the shower, her hair turbaned on her head, unable to spill over her shoulders.

What would someone like Emmett see if she ever let him?

For an instant, Rosalie wished Bella were here to hold her hand, but she swiped at her eyes and brushed away that thought. She refused to allow her hands to shake as she took a deep breath and slowly unwrapped the towel.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

"I could tell you what it means, unless you'd rather continue to assume."

Edward flinched and closed the notebook, strangely stirred by Bella's wrath, which he'd never heard when they were teenagers. Until that last day in the meadow, her birthday, she'd always hidden parts of herself, as if she'd never fully trusted him. He only really believed in her love, and that he might someday deserve it, in those precious hours before he lost her.

"Do you want to tell me?"

It was a fair question. Her shyness bordered on elusiveness back then, and she hadn't said a word during his confession. Her arms, her closeness, her kisses all spoke to him, but she hadn't shared her thoughts.

"You won't like it." She warned. Years ago Edward wouldn't have pressed. But last night, he laid himself on the line. Didn't she owe him the same?

"That's not what I asked." The words were clipped, and Edward could hardly understand himself. He never expected to be angry with Bella, especially after the secret satisfaction of watching Jacob Black's departure from the kitchen window. But he was simmering, frustrated by the indecipherable page before him and the inscrutable woman standing behind him.

"I'm afraid." It was closer to an answer, but not good enough.

"What would _he_do if you didn't answer a straightforward question?"

"He would punish me."

Edward had a terrible, sudden urge to punish Bella for all the years he'd spent thwarting his own desire in order to protect her and his family. It wasn't her fault, but she was _here_and she had changed. He'd always imagined making Eleazar pay, but that would never happen. Eleazar would go to prison, but it would never be in Eleazar's power to restore what Edward had lost.

"Is that what you want from me, Bella? Because ... fuck." Edward slammed a fist on the notebook in frustration.

"How long have you wondered about this?" Bella took the chair across from him and snatched the notebook. "A few _hours_?"

The words were bitter, and the implication clear. She'd waited ten years for an explanation from him. That truth did nothing to dampen Edward's impatience, which suddenly bordered on fury. It wasn't fucking fair. He'd done it to protect her, not ruin her. And he feared she was ruined, that she'd let his absence break her in some irrevocable way.

It wasn't supposed to be this way! When he finally extricated himself, which he'd spent years plotting to do, she was supposed to be out here, being Bella. Not tied up in some asshole's idea of art begging to be beaten.

"What if I'm not your innocent, pliable little Bella anymore? Think you can forgive me for that?" Her mouth drew down harshly, revealing deep frown lines. For the first time ever, she looked older than she was. Somehow, he had done this to her.

No.

He'd left her. He'd wounded her terribly. But he hadn't made her into the woman who claimed to get off on wearing a dog collar and ... no. He couldn't let himself think beyond what he already knew.

Edward reached across the table and slid the notebook from under Bella's hand. He opened to the page she'd written on the night before and slid it back to her. "So tell me what it means," Edward said, his voice gruff, but as neutral as he could make it. He had no sense of how to accurately judge this reality. When Bella ducked her head and he couldn't see her eyes, Edward hissed, "Don't hide from me."

Bella glared at him then, eyes brimming with tears. "I wish I'd never fallen in love with you, Edward Cullen. Do you have any idea how often I've wished that in the past ten years?" She pressed her lips together, clearly battling for composure. She drew a deep breath.

"You really want to know what it means?" she challenged.

"I saw it-on your nightstand," Edward said quietly. He deliberately met her eyes, and when he did, something shifted and he tapped into a previously unknown reserve of calm and control.

"My vibrator?" Bella mocked. "You used to have such a dirty mouth, Edward. All those f-bombs and you can't say vibrator?"

"I can say vibrator, Bella. Now tell me what it means." He nodded to the journal entry, which had three numbered sections. "It says, '1. No. Because I don't get what I want,'" he prompted.

She met his eyes for a moment. "You have to understand something. When you didn't come back last night, I thought you were gone again. Gone for good." Bella shuddered and turned her head, blinking away tears. "I was frantic. I couldn't stand myself, the thoughts in my head. The pain." She took a deep breath and resumed. "So I called a friend. A Dom who could help me."

"You had him here?" Edward growled, black fury coursing through him. He'd never felt such a burn before. "Jacob?"

Bella shook her head. "I called a friend, Paul, and he helped me."

"You sleep with-"

The table was small, and Bella's hand flashed out in an instant. The slap resounded in the quiet kitchen. "How dare you assume? How _dare_ you? I didn't see this self-righteous streak when Tanya was on her knees sucking your cock in _our _meadow." The last words caught in her throat as an unwilling sob escaped her.

"I'm sorry, Bella." Edward reached for her hands, but she pulled them away, dropping them to her lap.

"Paul is a friend. A mentor. We're not-" Bella shook her head, negating the idea of Paul as a lover. "But he's a Dom, and he knew how to help me."

"And how was that?" Edward asked, though he dreaded what she might say.

Bella described the scene in her office: the clamps, the concentration, the pain. The relief.

Edward wanted to be angry, wished he could muster disgust. But his conscience reminded him of the many ways he'd used pain and concentration to survive the last ten years. Hell, he'd even surfed his share of BDSM porn, longing for the kind of release that he imagined would come from completely controlling something-anything-for once in his adult life.

"What about the journal entry?"

Bella flushed. "Paul gave me an assignment to do after our call ended."

"An assignment involving a vibrator?" Edward was glad to be sitting at the table, which hid the twitch in his pants.

She nodded. "I had to bring myself to the brink three times. I could orgasm or not, my choice. Each time, I had to write down what I chose and why."

"You didn't let yourself ..." he trailed off, unable to say the word. His dick ached almost as much as his heart as he thought of Bella getting herself so close. His entire being longed to push her over the edge, watch her body flush and shake, watch her mouth form that perfect O. But the image passed in a flash. "... because you don't get what you want?" Tears pricked his eyes at the thought.

"It's one of the ways I remind myself," she murmured, head down, looking ashamed but also as if this was a truth that should surprise no one.

Edward read the next two from the page.

2. No. Because it hurts more if I do.

His heart constricted in his chest.

3. No. Because I want it to come from him.

"From who?"

Bella tilted her head, a question, though Edward was almost sure she knew what he was asking.

"You want it to come from who?"

She looked cornered for a second before she smoothed out her expression. "Do you love me, Edward?"

"After everything I told you last night, I think you know, Bella," Edward snapped. But he fought the defensive impulse and continued after a beat. "I love you. I always have."

"I love you, Edward. That's the one true fact of my existence. It's been true even when I desperately wished it wasn't." Her eyes pleaded with him. "I never stopped wanting what I thought we had."

"Thought we had?"

"Alice told me it wasn't a game for you, but I didn't know about your letters until you mentioned them at Rosalie's. Before that-what else could I think?" she pleaded. "You were the king of Forks High School, the guy who always got what he wanted. And I was pretty sure you only started paying attention to me as a challenge to see if you could seduce the Chief's innocent little daughter."

She paused, studying his face, and Edward flushed at the memory. It was hard to recall what it had felt like to rule some small part of the world, but he'd done it then. He'd answered to no one, able to bend reality to his liking with charisma and force of will. She'd been smart enough to see that even as a girl. No wonder it had taken her so long to finally trust him.

"So all these years, you thought ..." he trailed off, wanting her to finish the sentence.

"I thought I'd been kidding myself. That I'd fallen in love with the world's most appealing illusion. Someone I couldn't ever really have." She paused here, and seemed to choose her next words very carefully. "I tried to put it behind me, move on, even forget, but I couldn't stop _wanting_ that beautiful illusion. The only thing that helped was reminding myself. _He's not yours. He never was. He never really wanted to be_."

Edward shoved the table aside and lunged, pulling her into his arms and dragging her to the floor before she could react. "I _am_ yours. I was _always _yours. It's all I ever wanted to be." The words were fierce, almost angry, and he shook her slightly as he said them. Then he grabbed her face and kissed her hard. "Do you understand now? Do you?" She hardly had time to nod before he kissed her again, a rough, consuming, demanding kiss.

It wasn't enough. Edward shifted, pinning her down, never breaking the kiss. "Do you feel that?" he rasped, thrusting his erection against her thigh, and she groaned, a sound that sent Edward into a frenzy. He kissed and groped, devouring the skin along her neck and collar bones, working his way down her body, her chest heaving beneath him. When he pulled back, wanting to see her face in ecstasy, he instead saw tears.

Edward rolled to his side, bringing her with him, raining gentle kisses on her face and hair as she sobbed in his arms, clinging to him as if he might vanish in an instant. "I'm here, Bella. This is the only place I've ever wanted to be."

She nodded, as if to say she felt the same, still sobbing.

He held her there, and the sobs gradually quieted. She kissed his neck, gently at first, then with naked desire. He momentarily savored this, his cock springing to life and aching for her. But soon he pulled back, needing to see her face. He kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes, beatific.

"I missed you every single day," he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek. It hardly seemed possible that she was in his arms.

She pulled back and met his gaze, her coffee-brown eyes liquid and deep. "From you," she said, at last answering his question.

For a moment, Edward's heart soared with hope for a shared future with Bella.

But real, unavoidable obstacles loomed. Edward held her gaze for an immeasurable moment, then leaned in to kiss her mouth.

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Emmett read Cullen's documents until he couldn't focus his bloodshot eyes any longer, taking copious notes. The papers were not to leave Jenks' offices, but a phone call to Cullen earned him the okay to fax a couple of crucial pages to his editor, interrupting the man's command-performance Sunday family lunch. He'd been peeved at first, but the documents were explosive enough that the editor apologized for his pique and authorized Emmett's assistant to travel to Port Angeles. She'd arrive on tomorrow's red-eye, along with the boxes from thwarted whistleblower Eric Yorkie. Those documents, paired with Cullen's, were inescapable evidence.

When he dismissed Shelley and left Jenks' office late in the afternoon, he headed to his hotel, which had a paltry but useful fitness room. He took a short run to warm himself up then made use of the weights. It felt good to sweat and his head grew clearer with every set of reps.

After a shower, it was still early for dinner, and Emmett was restless. The idea of room service or a meal in the dingy hotel restaurant held no appeal. He still hadn't had an edible meal in Washington State, and he had all of Seattle to choose from.

But his thoughts were set on the bistro in Port Angeles, and on Rosalie Hale.

She probably hadn't forgiven him for having what she deemed a dirty ulterior motive when he entered her gallery, but he couldn't give up on her without trying. She was unlike anyone he'd ever known. And it occurred to him: she owed him a favor. He'd never say that to her, but he was pretty sure he could prevail on her sense of obligation if he asked her to show him around town and help him find a place to purchase some additional clothes. It would give him a chance to change her unfounded opinion. He was fairly sure that part of her wanted to trust him.

Emmett placed a brief call to Cullen's remarkably helpful sister Alice, who provided him with Rosalie's mobile number, took down his sizes and promised to have clothes delivered to his hotel by morning, and recommended a different Port Angeles restaurant that would actually be open on Sunday night. With clothes taken care of, Emmett no longer had a pretense for seeing her understandable wariness, maybe that was for the best.

But now he had to straight-up ask her to dinner.

He paced his room twice, shaking out his arms and psyching himself up. Then he sat on the foot of the bed and dialed.

"Hello, Rosalie? It's Emmett McCarty."

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

Jasper had Alice securely in his lap. Even here, sitting on the rolling chair in his office, he couldn't let go of her, mere hours after she invited him back into her body and her life. In less pressing circumstances, this wouldn't be the ideal moment to unveil his discovery, but the clock was ticking. Jasper felt it.

And Alice deserved to know.

Jasper touched the mouse for his computer and the screen came to life with a splash of color. He started the preview of his game and sat silently as Alice watched, utterly absorbed. When it finished, she breathed, "A Ponzi scheme." He was so fucking proud of her-the word never appeared, he hadn't told her. She could see it, and so much faster than he had. She cleared her throat and spoke again. "Are you sure, Jas?"

He nodded, tightening his arms around her waist. "He roped Edward into it somehow."

It was Alice's turn to nod. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," she said.

Jasper turned her in his lap so he could see her face. "How do you figure that, darlin'?" How could a teenage Edward have been a powerful enough enemy to threaten Eleazar? The way her mind worked fascinated him.

Alice blanched as her intuition coalesced and the answer occurred to her. "Edward knew."

Jasper nodded as he considered this, and his nod grew more certain as he realized Alice was right. "I know Edward hacked his own accounts before I did-it's how I came up with the idea," he said, though this fact didn't account for everything. Jasper had hacked Edward's accounts from Edward's computer-that's what triggered the arrival of the Denali clan in Forks-but Jasper hadn't found evidence of anything untoward. Of course, at the time he only cared about secretly acquiring funds for his marijuana habit.

Then he remembered the Aston Martin, and an uncomfortable Christmas in Alaska with a moody and disgruntled Edward. "Oh Sweet Jesus." Jasper met Alice's eyes. "Edward must have tried to hack into his trust fund on Eleazar's computer that Christmas."

Immediate comprehension dawned in her eyes. Everyone in the family referred to it as _that Christmas_because of the tension between Edward and their parents, who had refused him permission to tap his inheritance to buy the car. "Edward saw something he shouldn't have, and Eleazar caught him," Jasper marveled, as the pieces came together.

The thrill of certainty was quickly eclipsed when Alice voiced the question Jasper wouldn't dare to ask. The senior Cullens were inextricably linked to the Denalis. Carlisle always said he and Eleazar were closer than any brothers, and the Cullen lifestyle depended on income from their investments, all managed by the Denali Group.

Alice grabbed Jasper's hand, her eyes wide and wary. "Do you think my father knows?"

R*E*L*E*A*S*E

For what he'd decided was the last time, Eleazar Denali stood at the window of his office in the 53rd at Third building to watch the sunset over New York City, slowly swirling the amber liquid in a crystal old-fashioned glass.

The Lipstick Building. The nickname reminded him of his beloved Irina. His heart squeezed as he remembered a moment when he stood behind Irina at the mirror as she applied her signature color to her lips, which were still slightly swollen from a languid afternoon of lovemaking. How distant she seemed now, as if viewed from the wrong end of a telescope.

So much smaller: Tanya and Kate, the reasons for his empire after Irina's suicide, and Carmen, the wife he'd refused to leave for the love of his life. Back when he thought he could have everything, instead of merely most things, his way.

Irina's girls no longer needed him, he knew. He'd lived as if he were the sun they circled around, but he never had been. Not really. He'd built an entire world to be able to say he'd given Carmen, Tanya and Kate everything their hearts desired, but it amounted to no more than a mural chalked on a sidewalk. The storm was coming, and the illusion would be washed away.

He'd wanted to give them everything, to make up for the one thing he hadn't given and couldn't change: his heart, which belonged to Irina, though she hadn't known it. Nothing mattered much after she killed herself. Nothing except winning.

Eleazar took another sip of Scotch. He'd once savored this brand and vintage, and still drank with the habits of a connoisseur. But they were mere motions, and he was nearly done with motions altogether.

To give himself credit where it was actually due, Eleazar took a moment to admire his plan. It was as elegant and foolproof as his investments were supposed to be.

When the last light had faded from the sky and all that remained were the twinkling lights of Manhattan, Eleazar crossed to the wet bar, rinsed out his glass and placed it upside down on a towel to dry. Then he buttoned his suit jacket, shot his cuffs, picked up his briefcase and quietly locked the door.

Eleazar smiled. All was well: no one would expect him back for days. Eleazar Denali, president, founder and chief investment officer of The Denali Group was, according to his official schedule, speaking at a three-day financial roundtable.

As he walked away, disappearing into the pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, he glanced up at his window wondering how long it would take for someone to finally find, in the pencil drawer of his desk, his final message.

**A/N: If you don't usually read one-shots, you'll want to make an exception for The Girl Who Jumped by the very talented aWhiteBlankPage. This story is complete in itself, and the writing is stunning. You get this Bella's full character arc in just under 14k words-a remarkably compact novel, and a heart-changing read. She's also writing a WIP called Honest Liar that's well worth a look.**

**The wonderful sleepyvalentina has a new WIP, The Heir and the Spare, with a wickedly funny Bella narrating events as she tangles with a bad-boy "spare" prince in modern-day England. It's completely different from her wonderful Fall to Ruin One Day, but just as terrific. As always with sleepyvalentina, the writing is taut and smart, and the story is chock full of possibility. And her Bella's nicknames for the bad-boy Prince Edward are priceless. I grin every time a chapter alert hits my inbox.**


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